It's all fine
by gothica vanessa
Summary: Starts post TGG - I started writing during the hiatus between S1 & 2, so some things don't happen like in the show, but it will all get back right on track. Mostly Sherlock thinking about John and John thinking about Sherlock, and the interaction resulting from it all...
1. Chapter 1

**IT'S ALL FINE**

**I. JOHN'S CASE**

SHERLOCK

John wasn't there. He was present physically, a medical magazine in his hands, but his mind was miles away — he hadn't turned one page in nearly one hour now — and Sherlock didn't like it at all. It wasn't normal. John never kept what bothered him unsaid; it always came out, and mostly sooner than later. And when he was really upset, he went out for a while to steam off, then came home and talked. It wasn't like him to just sit and brood.

Sherlock turned over in the foetus position on the sofa with an exaggeratingly heavy sigh. Still no reaction — no word about the article he was reading (or better said, pretending to read) to try to get Sherlock's interest picked up; no tea nor milk appearing out of thin air on the TV table; not even a roll of his eyes in silent annoyance at Sherlock's childish move… Any reaction was fine. But indifference? No, that was a first, and it was definitely NOT good, because John always did something when he played bored.

Yes, _played_ bored. In a way, since he had met John, Sherlock too was "never bored", to use John's words — at least, he never got anymore as bored as he has used to.

He hadn't done drugs for five years now, since his 'agreement' with Lestrade.

Sherlock had been regularly texting or calling the police through the years with clues about cases he learned about through the papers, signing "SH", and the D.I. had finally noticed that the tips weren't useless and had let known that he wanted a chat with their mysterious Indic the next time he called, and that's how Lestrade had got Sherlock's number. Then, his drug supplier had been found dead, and Lestrade had asked him about the "SH" they had discovered in his address book, of course… Sherlock had simply said that he hadn't killed anyone, Lestrade had assured him that it hadn't crossed their mind — sure — but had mentioned that he never would have taken him for the type who'd use, Sherlock had dismissively sighed something about getting bored, Sally had snorted, Lestrade had asked about what could be so boring, Sherlock had answered that every day life was just too dull, and Lestrade had offered to call him for help on a regular basis if he promised to quit in return. Sherlock had wanted to tell the D.I. to mind his own business, but well, the offer was really interesting… so he had nodded. They had talked further about the case, and then, when Sherlock had left, Lestrade had simply told him: "I call and you don't come, and the deal is off. I see you with eyes or whatever else I don't like, and the deal is off." Sherlock hadn't answered. The last thing he had heard before the door got closed was Sally's asking about "playing good Samaritan" and Lestrade answering that "it cost them nothing to try".

Sherlock considered the drugs to be _practical_. He knew which one to use if he needed to stay awake for days on end, or if he wanted to see beautiful colours that didn't even exist and try to name them in order to escape from his boredom for a few hours, or to forget the whole world when all he longed for was quiet, blank, _nothing_. He didn't consider himself an addict — all right, who ever did, huh… But really! He chose what, he chose when, he chose how much; he always tested the product before use; and he knew when to withdraw, and how to.

But Lestrade had kept his promise, and Sherlock didn't want to risk ending their collaboration: for once that he had direct access to the sources, and to Bart's labs and supplies, both chemicals and organics…

So yes, since that day, Sherlock hadn't used anything.

But it was only since he had met John that Sherlock didn't WANT to use when he got in a black mood.

Sherlock still had bad days, of course: his mind needed puzzles, and the world wasn't ever giving him enough. But they weren't as vivid as before. Sherlock hadn't decided yet if it made John THE cure, or the most intoxicating drug he had ever used; but, either way, it worked: having John around seemed to keep always at least a part of his mind not brooding but kind of scheming, trying to provoke a reaction from John and compiling it away, as he compiled _everything_ about the man.

True, John wasn't an undecipherable mystery or an unsolvable puzzle. And he wasn't unpredictable generally. But he surprised Sherlock regularly enough to be entertaining — fascinating even, to be honest. And the more Sherlock analysed John, the more he found him intriguing, and the more he wanted to find out more about him. There seemed to come no end to his obsession with understanding John; and that was definitely a first for Sherlock — people were usually so easily deduced.

John seemed so 'normal', 'plain'; 'transparent'. But there was so much more than met the eye about him and he couldn't be categorized without further analysis. Of course Sherlock had been _interested_ right away — a doctor who killed, a soldier who healed; both with a steady hand and nerves of steel you wouldn't expect to find under that jumper of his…

Sherlock had quickly realised though that there was no contradiction. John was both a doctor and a soldier _because he cared_. He truly cared about everyone and everything, and he had chosen to be an Army Doctor, instead of a normal doctor, because he cared THAT much. He wanted to make a difference, the kind of difference that counted on the grand scheme of things. John wanted to heal the whole world, because he cared. But he was also ready to kill; because evil was real and needed to be fought — because he cared. And he was ready to get killed too, because he cared.

So yeah, John was probably the bravest man on Earth: to be able to _keep _caring, over and over, though knowing he couldn't save anybody, though knowing he would inevitably get hurt somehow… it was dumbfounding.

And it wasn't simply fascinating anymore, it was worth his admiration. Sherlock had never admired anyone, but he admired John. The rest of the world might think John was the one admiring the other, but Sherlock knew better.

The fact that the war had made of John an adrenaline junkie (usual consequence of war when it wasn't destroying a man) was true. And of course, when he had been given an outlet by meeting Sherlock, John had gladly taken it. But it still wasn't John's principle motive for running after criminals. It wasn't about passing the time, keeping the boredom away; it wasn't about the challenge, or the thrill at having finally something needing _working on it_ to decipher. The adrenaline kicks were a welcome bonus, for sure, but John had embraced Sherlock's lifestyle so eagerly because it was _helpful_: he was catching the bad guys, making London a safer place.

So, John wasn't like him, at all. Sherlock felt most of the time disconnected from the rest of the world; John was human, 100%. Sherlock aspired to be great; John aspired to be good. They shouldn't work, right? But they did, undeniably.

For a start, John wasn't afraid of him. (No one probably frightened him anyway — for example, John wasn't paralysed by Mycroft, like people usually were; and it was _delightful _to hear him DARE to speak to his older brother the same way he did himself.) Sherlock could deduce everything about him or anyone else in his presence, and John never felt like it was a trespassing of his or other's privacy, but was only truly amazed, each time. And Sherlock could say whatever was on his mind, and John at least _tried _to understand before judging; he didn't always agree, of course, and Sherlock could even admit, in his mind at least, that, on some points — morals, for example — John might actually be more in the right than he was.

More important, John was the first person who wasn't trying to change him somehow. John never even _mentioned_ his playing of the violin in the middle of the night. John never asked for Sherlock to stop making experiments: he might complain about the consequential mess, or over the breaking of kitchen's devices (most often the microwave) in the process, but it was always about one experiment in particular, and never over the whole idea of experimenting. John never asked either for Sherlock to stop bringing body parts home; he just wanted them not to be too close to the food — and put in some boxes if possible would be even better. Sherlock believed it helped that John, as a doctor, was probably used to those anyway, but he was pretty sure he would have adjusted otherwise. And John never complained that much about him not eating, or not sleeping, or living on the couch for two days straight in his PJ — even though Sherlock knew that John, as a doctor, couldn't agree with those 'unhealthy' habits (and yes, John tried and often succeeded to get him to eat or sleep, but without judging or commenting). John simply accepted him, just as he was.

Sherlock had found it impossible to believe at first, and had tried to have John go overboard; but when in a few minutes apart both shooting the wall and having put a severed head in the fridge had been so easily discarded — the first being simply acknowledged as a way to take the boredom out, and the second only earning him a "there's a bloody head in the fridge" — it had been hard to deny it as a true fact anymore. Sherlock had of course right after got the bullets out of the wall — in case Lestrade ever planned another pretend drug bust, better to have them gone — but the holes, and the smiley, had stayed; it was nice to have a constant visible proof of John's acceptance.

Nevertheless, Sherlock kept trying to find John's limits. He couldn't really tell if it was because he couldn't help but simply want to KNOW where the line was, or if it was because he unconsciously applied his usual ways of protecting himself — chasing away someone who got too close. He would get particularly biting in his remarks, or provoking in his behaviour. And a few times, John had actually left the house to steam off.

If he was honest though, Sherlock _had _an idea about where the line might be. He had not so long ago pondered upon the perfect way to get a reaction from John and had come up with one simple line: "Jim, give me puzzles." He could easily put this on his website and make sure only John's computer would be enabled to see it; and that was without a doubt bound to get interesting, to provoke a reaction of a nuclear magnitude even. He had never dared to follow through that plan though.

Maybe it was because Sherlock had a problem with the idea himself: Moriarty had become someone he wanted stopped the moment he had threatened John — maybe before that even, when John had mentioned that it wasn't right to play with "actual human lives": Sherlock had in fact already decided to end the game when he had planned the meeting with _Mycroft_, of all people.

But maybe it was simply because Sherlock didn't want to find John's limits after all; and probably because he couldn't deny that he wouldn't be able to delete John as easily as the Prime Minister's name or the solar system — worse, even: he wouldn't want to.

Because, from fascination, through admiration, Sherlock had come to care. Yes. To CARE.

God knew Sherlock _didn't _want to (even if he rationally understood that it might be the least he could do, because John was still _here_, no matter what he had put him through, and because John cared about everyone, so maybe he just _deserved_ everyone to care back, the world's only consulting detective included). Sherlock had learned, at the age of eight, that caring was treacherous and only brought you pain in the end.

Sherlock had realised early, around five, that Santa couldn't be real. No way a fat, old man could deliver presents, climbing on roof tops and descending through chimneys, in one night only, all over the world — even if you counted five minutes a house, one night wasn't enough to do one city, huh. And how all those presents were supposed to fit in one poor little sleigh... Really, people couldn't expect him to be THAT stupid, right? So, by the age of eight, he was positively annoyed by the whole idea, and, that Saturday afternoon before Christmas, when Daddy had left to do some shopping, Sherlock had told him that there was really no point in doing as silly as everyone else: they should be above all that, no? But Daddy had left, and had never come back.

Sherlock never told his father had died in a car accident. He always said he had left. Mummy had seemed to understand and had always let it slip; but Mycroft would get enraged, any time. One Christmas Eve — why Mummy had kept celebrating it was beyond comprehension — Sherlock had maybe been that bit more insufferable than average, and they had argued maybe louder than usual, and Mummy had asked them to stop and had gone to her room to cry in peace. The brothers had exchanged killing glares in silence for half an hour, until Mycroft had complained about "why did Sherlock always have to upset Mummy" and Sherlock had left the room. But Sherlock knew he wasn't the one who had upset her, right?

So, Sherlock had decided, after his father's death, that it was better NOT to care, about anyone — besides Mummy and his brother, who were already too deep implanted in his heart to disappear. He had even never wanted a pet, and couldn't understand why people wanted to attach themselves to animals, which were bound to end before them.

Mummy was gone too now. Lungs cancer had taken her ten years ago. She had made him swear on her death bed that he would quit smoking, and he hadn't touched a cigarette since then. Hence the nicotine patches — he still needed his dose, but would never come back on his promise. And if ever questioned, he could just blame it on the new regulations.

Mycroft and Sherlock had decided to keep the manor — they didn't deem it fit to abandon a place that had belonged to their family for centuries, and there were no cost to it except for the maintenance. They had decided to rent it (except for the first floor of the left wing, which was still theirs to use as they saw fit) to a company which used it for parties, meetings, and as a 'nice accommodation in the countryside for a week-end', and it was working good enough to keep the property.

So, before John came into his life, Mycroft had been the last person who could (and one day most probably would) _hurt_ him, no matter their awkward relationship.

Sherlock had always been very good at observing and deducing, so it had always been easy to find the hurting spots in others and press them to scare away the ones who tried to get too close. People were to be observed and deduced, to be used if needed, but _never _to get close to. Sherlock preferred to get involved with the inanimate and the dead — after all, those couldn't hurt him, huh; and they weren't questioning nor criticising nor complaining about whatever he did either, which was a bonus. So, Sherlock solved cases and chased criminals because it was the only thing he had chosento feel alive. There was a risk to be physically harmed, maybe killed, but there was no emotional danger, and that was the only danger Sherlock was afraid of.

There were, to quote John once more, a very few "people he liked", mostly because they just belonged to his daily life; and only one person "he didn't like" (everyone else in that category being deleted right away): Anderson, who was far too arrogant for the brain he had to start with, and who toyed with Sally — Sherlock would have been happy to simply delete him from his mind, but there was no point in deleting someone you were bound to meet on a regular basis, unfortunately.

In chronological order, Sherlock's list of people he liked included: Lestrade, who wasn't stupid actually, and who held the keys to his direct access to the crime scenes; Sally, who still hadn't decided if she was more afraid or fascinated by him but obviously didn't trust him, and whom he enjoyed provoking for the fun of it; Mike Stamford, who obviously saw him as a lunatic but who was useful — he was always happy to present potential flatmates to him whenever needed, even if it was mostly for the fun of getting to see them being scared away in a few minutes; Molly, the gentle, sweet girl who revered him and who was so easy to manipulate; and Mrs Hudson, with her motherly ways and her non-judgmental kind of humour.

Yes, contrary to what he had told John — which had been an improvised kind of last provoking test before John might decide to move in (Sherlock knew from experience that having someone move in and then out after only a few hours was just tiresome, huh) — he had simply met Mrs Hudson when looking for a new flat. Sherlock always wanted a place in the City Center (he had a long history of moving in and out as he was regularly expelled out of a flat because of his 'behaviour', or because some experiment went 'a bit' wrong), and he could use a flatmate because it would make his funds last longer than if he had to pay the rent on his own: he wasn't per se looking for a 50/50 share; more for someone who _might_ stick around for a few weeks. But John had asked about the rent, and Sherlock really wasn't going to say that he always adjusted the price to what a potential willing flatmate could afford — John looked like someone who would have problems with such an arrangement, and Sherlock had by then enough hope about him being a possibly suitable flatmate not to lose him over something as superfluous as the price of the rent, right — so Sherlock had made up that story about Mrs Hudson's late husband. So far, both John and their landlady had no clue about this, and Sherlock definitely enjoyed John's puzzled look any time Mrs Hudson would mention her husband, without any of the venom she owed to feel if she had believed him deserving to be sentenced to death (Sherlock had swore to himself to be present the first time John would get inside Mrs Hudson's rooms — the pictures framed on the walls were bound to provoke a reaction from his eyebrows, at the very least). The truth would of course come out one day, and they might then both be cross at him for a few days; but Sherlock intended to enjoy it until then.

But 'to like' and 'to care' were two different things, and Sherlock believed that he wasn't attached to the 'happy few' on his list to the point of being devastated if they were to move to the other side of the world or to that inexistent other world some people wanted to believe in. The ones he would miss the most would be Lestrade (and Sherlock told himself that it would be more out of practicality than out of pure concern) and Mrs Hudson (so Sherlock reminded himself regularly that she was a lady of age, and that the inevitable would happen sooner than later).

So, Sherlock's life pre-John had been _fine_, neatly ordered, mostly carefree. And that's why, truly, Sherlock didn't want to care about John.

He had realised though the moment he had seen John strapped in Semtex that he did, undeniably. It seemed that John had evolved from someone useful to someone entertaining to someone fascinating to someone he cared for too quickly for him to notice and stop it. And now there was no going back. What had been meant as an easy joke had turned out to be the simple truth — Sherlock would be lost without his blogger. It wasn't just _nice_ to have John around; he _needed_ him around. And though Sherlock had first tried to tell himself that it was only a new way of being his usual selfish, he couldn't deny anymore that there was more to it: right now, for example, he was very concerned by John's actual state of mind, and that meant that he wanted John not only around, but _happy_ too. So yes, he cared.

Sherlock turned once more on the sofa, this time looking at John again — who still hadn't turned one page from his magazine…


	2. Chapter 2

JOHN

John Watson was troubled. It had happened again this morning, and that ridiculous new 'habit' of his was disconcerting, to say the least. He HAD to think about it — it was thrice, now, and in less than six weeks; it couldn't be qualified as 'accidental' anymore… So, sitting at the table with a medicine magazine laid before him, John started introspecting.

/ / /

The first time it had happened, in the beginning of June, John had just shrugged it off as a silly thought.

They had been at a crime scene, Sherlock bent over a body John could only partially see. Sherlock's usual focus had been clearly visible though, and John had suddenly recognised the growing feeling in his guts for what it had been: he was feeling kind of jealous… of a corpse!? He had blamed such fleeting insanity on his current lack of sleep: he had been working extra shifts at the surgery due to colleagues being on early summer holidays, and Sherlock had been playing his violin then for three nights in a row — which actually had meant that John should have been grateful for that new case, which would hopefully keep Sherlock occupied and NOT bored for the following days, right? So by the time Sherlock had stood up and had met his eyes before starting to present his deductions, John had been, as always, eager for the show.

Helping Lestrade solve the case had taken them a bit more than two days, and when John had come home after the paperwork duty he had just shouldered on as his own — Sherlock hated it, and John was happy to be _really_ useful; he often felt more like he was dragging behind or tagging along on a case, so he was glad there was something he could truly help with, even if it just meant being patient enough to fill all the forms in — he had been pleased to find that Sherlock had finally passed out, as often, on the sofa.

It had felt odd, though, this time. Because when Sherlock actually WANTED to rest — and not simply dropped dead right wherever he was for what, maybe fifty minutes maximum — after a case, he would retire to his bedroom right the moment they got home, and generally slept a good 18 hours minimum; which more than made sense, between the frequent non-sleeping and their usual case-closed meal during which he ate in one hour the amount of food he normally ate in a week.

So John had felt kind of guilty. It had been early still; they had caught the killer in the morning, which was why John had gone to the police office right after instead of the following day. So Sherlock must have been trying to wait for him so they could eat out, celebrating their closing of the case and surviving it.

But Sherlock could definitely use the sleep, and would probably not suffer from a strain in his neck from sleeping in that maybe-not-so-comfortable a position; his body was after all pretty well used to napping on the sofa, so… John had decided to just let him be. He had fetched the quilt he kept under the sofa for that reason and had draped it over Sherlock's form, had made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, had taken his laptop upstairs and had written down their latest adventure in his blog before calling it a day too.

Anyway, he wouldn't have been able to drag a half-asleep and not-cooperative Sherlock into his bed without — God forbid! — ruining an on-going experiment or, at the least, tripping over one of the numerous boxes on the ground of Sherlock's bedroom.

Really, it was a miracle there was still place enough for a bed in there, between all the boxes, containing for the most Sherlock's own 'archives', with the exception of a few full of cold-cases files Lestrade had finally agreed to lend to Sherlock. It had actually been John's idea, and though it wasn't really clear still how much official (or not) it was — which probably explained Lestrade's doubts about it at first — Sherlock had been truly enthusiastic. John would never forget the surprised and genuine "Brilliant!" it had earned him when he had presented him with the first box, in May. So, the in-between-cases days since then seemed to be for his friend a lot less boring, which was a reward in itself, you bet — there were really few things potentially as dangerous as a very bored Sherlock. And, though Sherlock wasn't always happy with the PD reports, which lacked about most of the significant details he so relied upon, if the photos were good, Sherlock was able to find new leads, and had so far actually solved 6 cases.

The following weeks had passed slowly, far too slowly, trying to help Sherlock out of his usual boredom eating John's energy away, even if he had found out by then the most effective ways to handle it:

One: regularly getting Lestrade to allow another half a dozen of files to leave the PD archive, so that Sherlock would be occupied while John went to the surgery.

Two: making sure that Sherlock regularly drank, and, more difficult, that he ate something akin to a meal at least every two days — really, how the man remained healthy was a medicine-defying miracle sometimes: he never wanted to eat while on a case because he claimed it disturbed his thoughts' process, and when he was bored he either just refused to eat, sort of out of denial of his humanity, or just didn't notice he was hungry… John had first wondered if it was just a ploy to annoy him; but he did the shopping, and nothing had ever disappeared from the fridge or the cupboards, except tons of milk — Sherlock's favourite drink, it seemed — and a few edible things now and then — not counting the chicken which had only been dissected one afternoon, of course.

So yeah, making sure Sherlock sustained himself was truly a constant job. The trick though was very simple: never put a plate in front of him, and never, NEVER comment when it worked. John's life had turned a lot easier when he had figured that one out.

He just had to make a few toasts for himself, cut them in one size bites and put them on the coffee table while watching TV, and Sherlock would grab a few for himself. John just pretended not to notice — though he hadn't been unable not to smile the first time; but smiling was allowed, apparently — and went to make another plate moments later. And to have Sherlock eat a real meal, the easiest way was to drag him out to a restaurant — and yes, being yet annoyed by Angelo's happy cheer before bringing a candle to their table (John had stopped arguing about that the 5th time they dined there, it was obviously totally pointless anyway) or by the (in fact not) knowing smile from Yu, the Chinese waitress, as they passed the door. Sherlock of course never ordered for himself except for their case-closed celebration, but he would always pick from John's plate — which if really needed could be easily triggered by John choosing a meal he knew Sherlock really liked (you can bet John registered every dish Sherlock ordered after a case for later use). It was by now so natural in fact that Sherlock hadn't even complained the first time John had asked for TWO forks, about a month before: Sherlock never was one to argue when the facts where undeniable, after all.

John tried other places from time to time — and there was a really good Indian only two streets away he'd like to try, but Sherlock 'till now had always refused; curry apparently being the most dangerous meal in English criminal history, with his evident qualities to hide the taste of whatever poison or drug you felt like throwing in it (*AN 1) — but Sherlock fought him less about going out (aka getting fed) if there was the prospect of guessing the cookies' fortunes (which always failed, of course, but they always had a good laugh) or of being praised by the Italian ex-burglar, so they still went there most of the times. They never paid at Angelo's, but Sherlock regularly left a tip big enough to cover for the half of all they ate there — Angelo wouldn't appreciate it if they paid for the whole…

Three: go to sleep at Sarah's when the violin sessions got too enthusiastic — her usual pat on his shoulder as he passed her door clearly signing she had put him definitely off the potential-boyfriend list, but onto the friend list, which was fine. They'd drink something, watch some show on TV — which was actually enjoyable because Sherlock wasn't either spoiling the plot after two minutes in or complaining about the writer's illogical twists if the scenario ended differently than how he had predicted — then she'd retire for the night. John never joked anymore about sleeping arrangements; he cherished her enough to see that she deserved more than the in-between-cases time he could offer her.

Because John had realised pretty quickly that Sherlock WAS his priority.

John would agree with anyone who told him he had a rather abnormal way of life, but it was HIS choice, and he wouldn't wish it to be any other way. Through Sherlock, he had found himself again. He had a purpose. He had the adrenaline. And he WAS useful. That was enough for someone to be happy over his life, right? There was more about it though. Just like Mycroft — that had actually made him laugh the first time he had thought about it that way — John worried about Sherlock. Constantly. And he cared. Obviously.

But how could he not? Sherlock was so… _essential_. Yes, that was the best definition for the man — scratch genius, brilliant, unique, bloody annoying, insufferable, childish, impossible, alien, or any other words that came to your mind — because Sherlock _mattered_. The world might not need John, no matter how brave (or stupid, if you looked at things in Mycroft's way) a soldier or good a doctor he could be. John truly believed he was replaceable. And if his death could make the world a better place, well, he was happy to oblige, be it in Afghanistan, or in a darkened swimming pool. But Sherlock _wasn't _replaceable. The world _needed_ Sherlock; it might not like him, and Sherlock might not appreciate it either, but it needed him.

And, as the very few other people who actually cared (Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade) weren't allowed to take care of Sherlock, but as, for a reason that still eluded him but to which John was grateful, HE was, well, John DID take care of Sherlock, of course. It was a sacred duty, in a way. But one he had chosen, and that made it so much more than a duty.

John had never felt that kind of attachment for a friend before, so John had had to redefine his concept of 'best friend', but he had come to terms with the fact that Sherlock WAS the most important person EVER in his life. It wasn't love in the usual meanings of the word — it was neither family nor sexually related — but John knew that he DID love Sherlock, in a way he had never loved anyone else, and in a way which he couldn't define except from the fact that it felt _vital_.

So, John would never leave Sherlock's side; at least for as long as Sherlock would stand him — though most people probably looked at this the other way around — and probably even after that, if it ever came to it.

Came morning, Sarah would stop by Baker Street on their way to the surgery, and wait in the car while he went upstairs to check that Sherlock had survived his short absence and that the on-going experiments didn't look too dangerous for the flat or Sherlock's health.

So yeah, there _was_ routine, even in the middle of constant chaos.

The second time it had happened, a few weeks ago, John had felt disgusted, and very angry with himself. Being jealous of a corpse was so wrong, and in so many ways; what was the problem with him lately, really?

So when Sherlock had shot him his usual catlike, smug smile, the one which told he had solved something and was once more going to blow their minds away with his deductions, John hadn't been able not to lash out angrily.

"Just cut the theatrical, all right! We already know well enough how dumb and blind we are!"

It hadn't been the first time he had nudged Sherlock into getting to explain himself, but it sure had been the first time he had done it with despise. He had added a "Please" apologetically, surprised and ashamed at his loss of temper, but he hadn't been sure anyone had actually noticed it — Donovan's whistle and Lestrade's gasp had still been resonating in his ears, and Sherlock had turned whiter than he had ever seen him.

Sherlock had recovered quickly though, had walked to Lestrade and had presented the facts to him in a far-too-unenthusiastic manner for his standards, and then had left the crime scene without a glance back.

Donovan had given John a thumb-up as she had passed him on her way to greet the morgue staff, "Finally someone who's able to shut him up. It's actually good to have you around." But John had ignored her, the words first meaningless when they had reached him, because he had just frozen in place. He had felt cold, or slapped, he hadn't been really sure which one. Sherlock hadn't glanced at him, not even once, and had only been addressing Lestrade. Since Alex Woodbridge's murder, more than two months before, Sherlock had started 'performing' more to him than to Lestrade, and having the situation return to even less than square one had truthfully gnawed at him — Oh, wait, that out of place "Happy New Year" from the D.I. by then maybe made more sense, now that he thought about it…

But John had known that Sherlock ignoring him hadn't been some kind of 'punishment' (for lack of a better word), no matter how it might have seemed in the other's eyes. John had known he had crossed a line: he had told Sherlock to piss off, huh… No wonder Sherlock hadn't been able to meet his eyes after THAT. John was after all the only one Sherlock had come to rely upon for support. John's admiration had been the base of their relationship; he was THE audience to Sherlock's genius. So yeah, Sherlock probably hadn't expected it. And having been publicly and unprepared betrayed in his trust must have stung — even more, knowing Sherlock's ego… So yeah, John had felt guilty and ashamed, but for a totally different reason by then than three minutes before…

Out of habit, he had stared at the corpse for a while, trying to see it with Sherlock's eyes. It had been easier, now that he had known where to look, of course — the marks on the skin, the belt that had spoken of a recent and fast loss of weight… Suicide, obviously. He had realised he wasn't the only one staring. Lestrade had been standing next to him, learning to see too it had seemed. Minutes had passed.

"Are you all right?"

Lestrade, of course. John had sighed.

"More tired than I thought, apparently…"

"Well, he mustn't be easy to live with." Lestrade had obviously been trying to soothe him, which had been surprising — they never exchanged that many words usually — but perfectly in character for the D.I.

"Actually, it is manageable."

And truly, it was. Once you knew how Sherlock worked, interaction was not only possible, it was kind of easy.

Asking him, even nicely, to do something was pointless (Could you please put the fingers/eyes/hearts/levers in a Tupperware next time? — Sure… REPEAT a couple of weeks later). Asking him, even nicely, NOT to do something just had the opposite effect (Please, don't put that in the microwave! — BOOM); he should have seen that one coming though: "people love to contradict you", indeed.

A bet _might_ work — of course, Sherlock always had to prove he could outdo anyone or anything — but it was tricky (betting Sherlock couldn't cook just made Sherlock cook, not eat what he'd cook, for example), and, John knew too clearly, potentially dangerous (John still felt a cold shiver run through his spine any time he saw white pills — and he worked at a surgery, for Christ sake!), so John had quickly abandoned it.

But a 'no comment' approach was ALWAYS a win. Maybe Sherlock just enjoyed pushing his buttons and didn't see a point in it anymore once he stopped reacting? But it worked, and that was the only thing that mattered in the end. Stop complaining about unpacked body parts, and not only Tupperwares appeared in the fridge, but warning post-its on the microwave too. Pretend Sherlock indeed didn't need to eat, and Sherlock ate. Make a joke about clothes being ripped-off instead of shouting something about not waving a gun around when evidently distressed because it would be really damn stupid to die accidentally right after surviving an encounter with a criminal mastermind, and Sherlock suddenly calmed down, and even joked back.

So yeah, manageable. Tiring, often, but manageable, always. And NEVER boring, you bet.

John's answer had evidently surprised the D.I., but he hadn't pushed. Silence had fallen as they had resumed staring at the corpse at their feet; not an uneasy one — they had simply stopped talking. Then Lestrade had made a sign, and several people had suddenly appeared. It had been long after the body had been taken away that John had realised he should definitely go home.

John had frozen the moment he had passed the door. He always wished for _something_ while going in — because silence was even more dreadful than gunshots or fumes or explosions — but he surely hadn't been expecting THAT: Sherlock had been _playing_ his violin, in the middle of the afternoon.

Sherlock regularly passed his nerves scratching on his instrument, after a 'visit' from his brother or on a very frustrating day, but, before that instant, John had only heard Sherlock _play_ in the very middle of the night, when it had happened to awake him. He had never mentioned it — after all, Sherlock had warned him from the start, so moving in had been simply accepting it. And he'd gladly pick the violin any time over some exploding or nauseating experiment with body parts, you bet… But the music was muffled when they were a floor and several doors apart, and now that it had been clear to his ears, John had been amazed: Sherlock played _very _well.

It shouldn't have been surprising — if Sherlock got into something, he was bound to excel, huh. But after the 'noises' he normally heard, actual music had come as something unexpected.

John had believed that he could recognise the piece, because it was the tune that awoke him most of the times. He had wondered if it was Sherlock's favourite. That thought then had kind of bugged him, because hearing it suddenly had been feeling then too intimate. He shouldn't have been here: Mrs Hudson obviously wasn't home, and Sherlock probably hadn't thought he would be home that soon — he usually stayed longer out if he "needed some air".

Yet John hadn't dared to move: Sherlock might hear the door closing if he had left, and going in while Sherlock played had just felt irreverent. So John had stayed in the hall, front door ajar, until the music had stopped. Then he had waited some before closing the door noisily and had walked up the stairs in an unhurried pace.

He had opened the door, ready to say he was sorry and all, but he had stopped at "Sherlock".

He had seen his laptop, his gun, and others of his belongings usually scattered all around the place — Sherlock often using them as his own and just dropping them wherever he was when he was finished — neatly in order on the table, and he had only been able to stare at them in shock, their message evident yet one he hadn't wanted to understand.

"Thought I'd make it easier for you; after all, it's a miracle you lasted that long. You don't need to wait; I'll inform Mrs Hudson when she arrives."

John had opened his mouth but nothing had come out; he had felt like a goldfish. Was that how Sherlock dealt with problems: just discarding them? He had tried again.

"You've decided you want me to move out?"

Sherlock had seemed surprised, which just hadn't make sense — Sherlock, surprised?

"Well, I assumed YOU intended to?"

John had smiled, relief flooding through him as he had realised Sherlock's reaction had nothing to do with him and everything to do apparently with his previous flatmates.

"No, of course not. I'm just… having a bad day."

Sherlock had smiled back.

"Oh, well, I should understand everything about bad days, right, with my huge experience..."

The obviously playful kind of regalian, dismissive tone had been the same as always, and John had known they were all right.

He had sat at the table opposite Sherlock.

"I'm sure Lestrade is going to want more details about how you came to your conclusions this afternoon, and I'm due there tomorrow to fill everything in, so will you please enlighten me?"

Sherlock had scoffed, side grin and twinkle in his eyes included, "Oh, it was _obvious_!" and John had only smiled wider as he had waited patiently for the show to begin. He hadn't had to wait for long.

Later that evening, while Sherlock had been maintaining his website, John had decided the atmosphere was good enough and had finally asked the question he had had in mind for hours.

"So… How many flatmates did you scare away?"

Sherlock had answered while typing, "I've deleted most of those data, but I'd say… eleven, not counting the two who actually ran off before finishing unpacking."

John hadn't been able not to smile.

"How long did they last?"

Sherlock had stopped typing and had met his eyes.

"Oh, most of them didn't make it longer than a few days. Number 3 had the record: she stayed three weeks, I was impressed."

John had laughed. "I am impressed too. By her. And by you: you kept trying."

Sherlock had shrugged. "Well, the money from the last time I'd been paid for my services was thinning away and I really didn't want to have to go back to the manor. I could have relocated somewhere cheaper, but, of course, I preferred to stay in London."

"Of course." Criminal rates around THE city were probably higher than in any half-deserted area, and Sherlock's ego wouldn't survive any help from Mycroft.

John had just learned more about Sherlock's past in the last two minutes than in the five months they'd lived together. Sherlock rarely talked about his past — either because he didn't like dwelling on this part of his life, or simply because he lived too much in the present to care about history (with the exception of crime history, of course) — and John always tried not to pry.

So John had been glad to realise that he had deduced a few things right:

One: about the Holmes' upbringing. Not only the way they dressed, but the way they moved and behaved — a mix of being both by right and nature _above_ everything, which should come over as snobbish but felt just an intrinsic part of who they were once you knew them enough, and of constantly having to perform, sort of (definitive leads: Mycroft and his umbrella, Sherlock and his hands), yet no matter how over the top they could be sometimes, they were never grotesque nor ridiculous, but always simply elegant — and the way they talked; not only their words — though "meretricious" for example probably wasn't part of the daily vocabulary of most of their contemporaneous — but their phrasing… And not forgetting their kind of odd first names… It all screamed high level, old fashioned, and probably noble education… And now there was a manor! Of course! John had secretly noted to look that one up on the internet some day.

Two: about how Sherlock came to money. He obviously didn't have a proper job, so when Sally had told that he wasn't being paid either for being their freelance help, John had been puzzled, because though Sherlock looked enough as someone who could live only on the benefices of a huge bank account, it just didn't fit with the fact that he needed a flatmate, huh… Of course, the astronomical cheques he had received from Sebastian a few weeks later had explained everything: with a payment of five figures every now and then, you didn't really need a normal job, indeed.

So yeah, John might not have Sherlock's neurons, but he had got a few things right, and it had felt nice. What had pleased him the most, though, was the simple fact that Sherlock hadn't decided that he finally preferred to live alone, after the blind banker case and its related enormous cheque.

Sherlock's voice had brought John back to the moment.

"And now, well, there's you. 5 months, 3 weeks, 2 days—"

John glanced at the clock. "And two hours since I first passed the door."

Sherlock had smiled. "Yes. And you're still here."

John had smiled back. "Yes, I'm still here."

And now, it had happened this morning for the third time.

John had fallen silent since, clearly needing to think. He had tried to seem eager as usual when Sherlock had started to present his deductions to them; and really, the case had been exceptional — not a murder, except if you decided to call a murderer Silver Blaze, the stallion which had kicked flat dead the man who had been trying to nick his ham's tendons in order to have him lose a race he was supposed to win in every one's mind (*AN 1) — but really, he had just longed for a cup of tea, and enough peace and quiet and time for himself to do some introspection. So that was what he was doing now: introspecting.

He _knew_ Sherlock cared. So why was that feeling resurfacing, again and again, lately?

True, he had first wondered if Sherlock simply liked his company because he so evidently admired him. But he knew by now for months that it WAS more than that; that Sherlock truly cared.

The way Sherlock had got the Semtex-laden parka off him had definitely annihilated any lingering doubts he could still have had before that moment. And when John had realised retrospectively too how Sherlock had tricked him out of the flat that night, saying he had 'accidentally' ruined the heater, while he had just turned it off, knowing it would get very quickly really cold inside (due to their blown-out and still not replaced windows) and that John wasn't keen on cold, in the evident hope it would make John leave quickly… it was clearer than any neon sign John could ever need.

John hated Moriarty with all his heart. The criminal could try to say he was just a 'consultant', and that most of the deaths weren't in fact his own, as far as John was concerned, he was truly a cold-blooded killer of the worst kind, and the world would be better off without him: he had assassinated at least 15 people, probably more, so… John wouldn't be able to rest until the man was stopped, one way or another.

Moriarty had escaped, Mycroft had said. John believed he was alive; after all, Mycroft had nothing to gain in masking his death — commandos weren't the police: if their targets got killed instead of brought to justice, well, people tended to think it had probably then been the only option… But sometimes, John wondered if he hadn't been captured and propositioned a top job in some very dark arcane of the government. He trusted Mycroft to be clever enough to realise someone like Moriarty would always work in his own interests only, and to care enough about his little brother not to willingly spare someone who had threatened his life. But Mycroft couldn't possibly always decide everything on his own, right? Or could he? So yeah, even if John had no real problem believing Moriarty had succeeded in escaping, even while forty commandos had been given him as a target — the man WAS clever, he had to recognise — he was lucid enough not to wipe that terrifying second possibility off his brain.

John was still angry at Sherlock too: for enjoying the 'games' a bit too much, obviously, but even more, for having chosen to confront the criminal mastermind without him — but with Mycroft's help, which made sense (the man HAD means) but only made it worse, knowing how it mustn't have been easy for Sherlock to contact his brother.

John still hadn't asked about how it had gone specifically.

Sherlock might have contacted Moriarty through his website, proposing a meeting, after John had left the flat, knowing his brother wouldn't miss a text mentioning "Bruce Partington" suddenly appearing on the Web, and they had had just time enough to make a few quick arrangements. John preferred to think though that they had arranged it all at the end of the afternoon — after all, Sherlock had told him he was going to give the plans back to Mycroft, right? But then, Mycroft's team would have intervened sooner, no? Or not. Maybe they had just intended to pluck Moriarty away when he would leave, or thanks to the tracer they'd probably implanted in the stick, so that John needn't need to know that there were commandos involved and wonder about that second possibility which wouldn't leave his brain, but they had been forced to act when the meeting had clearly come to a point of no return?

But the fact that Mycroft's team had suddenly appeared out of thin air after having neutralized the two gunmen (yeah, the other lasers were only lasers) but that no one had bothered to fetch the memory stick from the depths of the pool had been eloquent enough for John to guess the truth right away. And the supposed-to-be soothing "Sorry, John. You being kidnapped had never been part of the plan" from the oldest Holmes had definitely closed the case. John had glared so hard in response that actually BOTH Holmes had lowered their gaze to the floor.

Anyway, since that night, John knew for certain that Sherlock really cared about him. So what could he be _jealous _about, really — the list of people who could pretend to have Sherlock care about them wasn't that long at all, right?

And then it clicked.

Sherlock cared, yes, but _why_? Was it because he cared about John as a separate, independent entity; or was it because he saw John as a prolongation of himself, sort of, and cared about John as he would care about any of his own body parts?

Sherlock generally wasn't the touchy-feely type — except with Mrs Hudson; but she was so intent on playing both their mothers' substitutes (for instance, they did their own laundry (though most of Sherlock's of course was collected and delivered back by the dry cleaning shop at the corner of the street) but she had insisted on ironing for them if needed, and she always asked if they wanted something when she went out shopping, even if she kept repeating each time that "she wasn't their housekeeper"; maybe it was just to clear her conscience about being sort of spying on them to pass the time, but John didn't really mind: it turned out pretty useful now and then — for example when their cupboards were empty and there was a lady visiting) that it was hard not to indulge her now and then — but he had apparently no problem with physical contact with John: "give me this"; "text that for me"; "pass my phone" — 'which is in the jacket I'm wearing right now, and check my messages for me after all, while you're at it'; acting all 'you're the only one I trust with that sacred pink phone I never let out of my reach while I check information over the Van Buren Supernova'; and on and on and on.

And Sherlock had said he thought better when he talked aloud; so when he talked to John, was he really talking TO John, or just talking aloud? John often had to tag along, or the only thing he could talk back to was Sherlock's back, in a way…

And oh, don't forget about the 'you're the one who's going to apologize for me when I run into people while chasing X or Y or Z' habit…

So, was John *John*; or an extension of Sherlock's hands, fingers, ears, mouth, whatever — kind of an improved version of the skull, because he was animated and went "oh" and "wow" at the appropriate moments?

John knew he _watched_ Sherlock. Continuously. Part of it was being amazed, simply, and truly; and part of it was being sick with worry — checking for any signals of drugs' use (that unknown part of Sherlock's past was still puzzling him, really… Sherlock SHOULD love his brain too much to mess with it, right?), monitoring on-going experiments, playing Sherlock's shadow or back-up when Sherlock ran off after dangerous people; the list was so long, better cut it here.

So, maybe, John wanted Sherlock to watch him too. Maybe he wanted the kind of attention Sherlock reserved to corpses and experiments focused _on him_. Maybe he wanted Sherlock to NOTICE. He felt stupid, really; whining like a spoiled child! Sherlock DID care about him; and coming from him, it was already SO alien…

John sighed, introspection wasn't doing him any better, at all.

/ / /

And then, suddenly, there was a warm cup of tea set on the table.

.

_(*AN 1)_

_Yes, Silver Blaze is one of my favourite canon story, lol _


	3. EDIT !

**IF YOU STARTED READING MY SILLY LITTLE FIC AFTER SEPTEMBER 18TH 2011, THEN JUST SKIP TO THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER !**

**There were here first a few extras paragraphs I had changed/added in the previous parts before that date (as a reader I would like to be noticed about that sort of things, so...)**

**I don't think I can simply delete the entry though, I don't want people who bookmarked it to get confused and miss a chapter...****  
**

**Sorry for being "messy" !**


	4. Chapter 3

**IT'S ALL FINE (3/?)**

SHERLOCK

Sherlock had first wondered if there could be some trouble with Harry — her divorce had just been pronounced, and it couldn't be good for her drinking problem — but he had already checked John's blog AND mailbox, and there was nothing aloof in the messages Harry had left.

Sherlock knew it weren't war memories haunting John. He could always tell when John had had nightmares about it: there was a particular tempo in the way he descended the stairs in the morning, as if his limp was back; he had a vacant, zombie-like expression on his face, as if he had turned himself _off_ in order not to feel anything; and he drank coffee, black. But there had been no hint of a limp all day, John's face at the moment wasn't inexpressive, just pensive, and there was a by-now cold, untouched tea before him; therefore, no war memories.

It wasn't money trouble either. There had been no row with any machine since that first time, and John now made enough money to cover for his non-exuberant way of life — he had an arrangement at work so that he was paid for the hours he did (somewhere between 25 and 45 hours a week), with no real obligation of days or hours, so that he could call off whenever Sherlock needed his help on a case; it was a good thing Sarah liked John after all.

Sarah, then, seemed the only option left to explain John's attitude.

Sherlock knew that nothing had ever happened when John had gone at her place, not even on the few times John had stayed there for the night — and, secretly, Sherlock had felt relieved, each time: John had no reason to leave the flat as long as he wasn't in a relationship, right. But maybe he had been deciding Sarah wasn't a 'danger' too soon, and maybe John wanted more out of his relationship with her than she was ready to give — people generally tended to shy away from the ones who endangered their lives; dull, if you asked him, but it was the most common reaction.

So, thinking back about the past days… John had gone to Sarah two nights ago; he had worked all day yesterday and had gone to bed early, so maybe Sherlock hadn't been in John's presence long enough to notice his current mood until today; and since this morning, John appeared to be kind of melancholic, while he should normally be happily blogging away about their last case — which would have by now been entitled in that usual dramatic way the Yarders never failed to memorize — and even grinning around: it hadn't been a murder after all, and that definitely must have pleased John… So, yeah, it could fit.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to handle such a situation. It would have been easier to relate with some sibling's trouble — he had at least some _basic_ understanding in the matter. Sherlock really didn't believe he would be the right person to give relation advice to anyone: to start with, he didn't have any experience in that area; and then, he would most probably end telling how dull and boring the whole idea is, or mentioning every single secret, personal reason why the relation wouldn't work anyway — and that was generally NOT what people wanted to hear. He was pretty sure John was aware of that fact too, and it could explain why John hadn't shared his thoughts as usual by now; after all, there was no point in it if he believed Sherlock unable or unwilling to relate... But maybe John would be happy if Sherlock just listened: wasn't it the required minimum in "real people's" interaction, in "real life"?

There were still too much 'maybes' in this theory to be considered as valid already, so Sherlock finally decided he had to DO something: if he was going to solve this — and he really intended to — he needed more data's, huh.

He went to make John a new cup of tea, using one of John's Royal Army Medical Corps' mugs, served himself a glass of milk, and went to sit in front of John.

John nearly jumped at the noise the mug made when it came in contact with the table, came back to the present and met his eyes, evidently surprised.

"You made me tea?"

Well, obviously! Was THAT even worth the breath it took to say it aloud? Then Sherlock realised that John was the one who always prepared drinks for the both of them, and that he had indeed never returned the favour before. It hadn't been a conscious move; there just had been no occasion, because why would he need to go to the kitchen when everything appeared in front of him anyway. He noted though to repeat the gesture regularly in the future, as it evidently pleased John.

Sherlock simply shrugged it off, as if explaining something unworthy of any explanation. "Well, I was thirsty, and I noticed that you hadn't drunk any of your now cold tea, so I thought you might like a new one."

"Ha. That's a good deduction then. Thanks."

The tone was unfamiliar: it wasn't awe, it wasn't blame, it wasn't a joke; it wasn't even a statement of a fact… It felt more like John trying to fill in a blank or to cover his smile — because he HAD smiled — but why would he bother to try to cover it to start with? Sherlock noted the gesture, but couldn't explain it, and it was frustrating. He went on with his initial plan.

"How's Sarah?"

John blinked. "Fine, I guess."

All right, he hadn't been thinking about Sarah at all then. Could the man be more puzzling?

John took a sip, and seemed surprised, again.

"He. It tastes good."

Sherlock nearly sighed — what was there to learn in discussing one's tea habits, really. The surprise on John's face was sort of offending though — what had he been expecting: some nauseating, or barely drinkable at the best, beverage? — "Of course it does! I've seen you make your tea about a thousand times; you should think it should be enough for ME to know how you like it..."

"Err. Right."

That tone, again. Sherlock identified it this time: there was some kind of relief in it? And another smile: so, satisfaction, definitely. And oh wait, rewind, had there been kind of a blush too? _Ohhhh_. And suddenly, Sherlock had figured it out.

It was so obvious, now that he knew how to put the pieces together. Had he really needed _one hour_ to figure this out? All right, John wasn't as blatant about it as Molly, but still… one hour was way too long to solve such a trivial matter. The more surprising though was that Sherlock didn't feel the usual irritation at how other people's brains worked, or at how annoying it must be to constantly need the approval or affection of others. It always made him want to snort; but not this time. The only things that went through him were a kind of warm feeling, and the undeniable knowledge that John wanted him to notice him. Therefore, that John actually liked him. Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile.

He sat straighter, and met John's eyes.

"All right. You're definitely left-handed but always handle your gun with your right hand; I wonder each time if it's because your right eye is your dominant eye or if it's to protect your injured shoulder — but you should know that I do trust you either way: after all, as a military, you must be trained to aim with both hands. You lick your lips a lot, mostly when you're concentrating or when you're nervous, but never when you're in actual danger, which should be contradictory but is not. You're still not re-acclimated to the English weather, hence your affection for that thick jumper of yours, even now that the summer has officially started. It usually takes twelve minutes between the moment your alarm goes off and the moment you enter the kitchen. Your hair is probably now the longest I've ever seen it, because your hairdresser shifted your usual first Tuesday of the month appointment to tomorrow. Do I need to continue, or are we good by now?"

There were numerous other entries on his 'John's list', but Sherlock hoped he wouldn't have to get through it all. What could be gained anyway for example in quoting the first fortune cookie they had opened together — "an unexpected relationship will become permanent." Odd the things he happened to file in his head without even noticing since he had met John, huh… It was disturbing, in a way.

John exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath through his tirade, and then, yes, he licked his lips, which made Sherlock smile once more. Interacting with John was definitely different from interacting with anyone else: it was actually _nice_. Odd, again, but undeniable.

John kind of coughed, as if he had lost his voice. "Well, I thought you only put in your hard drive the stuff that mattered for your work?"

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes theatrically for emphasis. "But John, you ARE part of it."

He realised though this might have come out wrong, but was right away reassured by John's embarrassed (but in a good way) babbling of "Err, well, of course, I guess…"

A few seconds passed, then John smiled. "And by the way, my right eye is indeed the dominant one, so you can stop wondering about that."

Sherlock smiled back. "Good."

They finished their drinks in shared, easy silence, and then Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Two cases in one day. I'm starving." He went to fetch the little case he had prepared while bored lately, turned back to John and proposed casually: "Shall we try that Indian you're so curious about? I'm finished with preparing the necessary test tubes to check for the most used poisons."

John did a double take, which made Sherlock smile. Then he laughed heartily. "Sure. But only if I get to make a few tests too for once."

The curries were delicious. And the looks of everyone around as they had their fun at testing each plate as it arrived were simply exhilarating.

JOHN

John still felt kind of high. It had been thrilling to have Sherlock's attention focused solely on him: the way those all-seeing eyes had been trying to x-ray his thoughts while discussing tea, of all things; the way those long fingers had been tapping against each other until they had suddenly stopped when Sherlock had puzzled it all out. And then, the way Sherlock had indulged him — smiling, not even scoffing — and the way Sherlock had _told_ him that he actually belonged in his world... This had definitely felt like one of the best moments in his life. And Sherlock had been preparing a case full of test tubes just so they could eat at the Indian? Really, that was definitely the strangest thing anyone had ever done for him. But it felt… warming. And it WAS fun.

So… The whole thing they had was crazy, probably: chasing criminals; hosting body parts, bacteria's and explosives at home; blogging about tobacco ashes or solved cases… Definitely not the healthy life style. But it was fine. Really fine.

They tested the desserts too, for good measure. John realised he had probably never seen Sherlock laugh so much as tonight. The Indian was definitely going to be one of their favourite places, you bet.

/

At the end of the next January, John mentioned to Mrs Hudson on his way upstairs that they should take a moment in the evening to renew their bail.

"That's not necessary, dear. There's still plenty of time, Sherlock changed the contract to a year at the beginning of last summer."

John was surprised. He wondered what kind of contract there had been before — or better said, how many kinds: daily didn't exist, right? But weekly? Monthly?

It didn't matter though. He remembered their conversation about Sherlock's flatmates' history, after that 'bad day' he had had. Apparently, that's after that that Sherlock had started to feel confident in the fact that they could live together for a long period of time. And it made John really, _really_ happy about the harsh words he had let out that day.


	5. Chapter 4

**IT'S ALL FINE**

**II. TIME FLIES BY (WHEN YOU'RE NOT TOO BORED)**

JOHN

The summer was going surprisingly well.

John had assumed there should come a lack of interesting cases with the holidays — you bet Sherlock really didn't care about trifling matters as the robbery of some tourists and all — and he had been right. Yet, it was now the middle of August, and Sherlock still hadn't get as insufferable as John had predicted he would get, and passed no more than his average two days a week on the sofa.

John knew it was mostly thanks to the cold cases he could focus upon on quiet times, and was very grateful for that moment of inspiration which he definitely considered as the best idea he had ever had. Lestrade had seemingly worked his way around it too, and had no problem anymore in letting files leave the PD archive for an indefinite amount of time: after all, cold cases getting finally elucidated could only be a good thing for the Yard, and the directors by now might just turn their eyes the other way.

So yeah, all in all, things were going as usual at 221B, Baker Street.

Some of their routine had changed though through the last weeks: John was now often greeted in the morning by the smell of fresh toasts and coffee as he got downstairs.

Sherlock had apparently decided after their 'tea conversation' that breakfast was his task — at least on the days between fresh cases (aka when each nanosecond of Sherlock's time didn't HAVE to be spent thinking about solving a mystery), and if he wasn't too bored to leave the couch. It made sense: Sherlock slept what, one or two short 'naps' a night, on a good (in John's point of view, of course) night, so he had more than time enough for it. And well, maybe Sherlock had just found in it a new successful way to pass some of the so-dreadful between-cases time. But John couldn't help but feel nicely warmed-up each time he passed the door and realised Sherlock had prepared breakfast _for him_.

It wasn't even strange by now to sit, hair still wet from the shower and all, facing an already perfectly-groomed and as-ever-perfectly-dressed-in-perfectly-cut-shirt-and-suit-even-in-the-heart-of-the-summer Sherlock.

Sherlock was always _very_ neat, with the exception of those one-to-three days in a row he would spend unmoving from the sofa. John had realised lately that he didn't really mind about those — even though the doctor in him couldn't approve that such a behaviour was healthy, and was always relieved when Sherlock finally decided that he needed some fresh air: secretly, John liked being one of the two or three persons in the world allowed to see Sherlock in ruffled PJ and with his hair all messed-up — and to be honest, it wasn't only because it felt like Fate making up from time to time for all the mornings when John was the dishevelled one in the flat; it meant trust, and familiarity.

What felt uncanny — even though John knew it was just a very normal consequence of living with Sherlock — was that the breakfasts were always in perfect harmony with John's morning mood.

Generally, there was toast and tea waiting for him at the table, and sugared coffee for Sherlock. They exchanged "good mornings" while John sat down, and then John ate while Sherlock read the papers and shared any promising tiny piece of news with him. On rare occasions, Sherlock would eat toast too.

But, when John had had a bad night, tossing around and having nightmares, the only things on the table were two mugs of black, strong coffee — the sugar box not in the middle but as usual at Sherlock's side — and the fruit basket; and though Sherlock always sat in front of him, he read then the papers in silence, and for the rest just let John time to himself. Sherlock never pushed, and John was grateful for it.

There had been only one exception to that rule. John had had three nights in a row the same nightmare, of the usual kind yet so frighteningly and disturbingly new, and on the third morning, after John had finished his coffee, Sherlock had asked: "It never lasts that long. What's different about your dreams?"

John had been startled out of his dark brooding, and had nearly asked Sherlock how he could know that there was something different about his latest dreams. He had though stopped at "How…" — sometimes, even though if rarely, he just preferred not to know.

Sherlock wasn't looking at him, obviously trying not to pry and trick it out of John if John really didn't want to share. Maybe that's what did it, and John confessed, eyes half-closed, unable to look at Sherlock.

"Well, I'm back there. The usual; guns firing around, explosions. And then someone is shot near me. I see him fall to the ground and I get to him, praying whatever God who should want to listen that I'll be able to help. And when I turn him over… it's you…"

He heard Sherlock turn a page, and guessed he was still not looking at him. "Dead, I presume."

"Yes." John sighed and finally looked at Sherlock, hoping seeing him alive and in his usual clothes in front of him would push the horrible picture of dead soldier Sherlock out of his brain.

Sherlock closed the papers, and leaned towards him, eyes boring into his very soul. "John. Last time I checked, you saved me."

A few seconds passed, eyes lost in each other, until Sherlock decided his point had been done and sat back further in his chair.

John uttered something close to "Right" while finally breathing in the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding — when Sherlock _really_ looked at you, it was hard not to feel hypnotized — and Sherlock smiled.

Another moment passed, and John's brain couldn't help though but go back to the dream. Sherlock called him off it, once more.

"John. _I_'ve put you in danger; _I_ got you kidnapped, twice. You. Saved. Me."

John didn't want to talk about how he evidently wasn't particularly afraid for his own life, but for Sherlock's, and how fears could be illogical anyway, and finally chose to lighten the mood instead. After all, John was happy to banter around: if they were bantering around, then Sherlock wasn't dead at all, right?

"Well, the first kidnapping doesn't count. They believed I was you, remember?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Idiots." Then he met John's eyes again, and all trace of joking had disappeared from his features. "But irrelevant."

John didn't call uncle yet though. "And there's a chance you had picked the right pill."

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. "Of course I'd have picked the right pill." John was flaring up and ready to give him another lecture about how stupid it was to risk his life simply to prove he was clever, but he didn't get the chance as Sherlock continued, very seriously again: "But, as it occurred to me later on, and so it would have been far too late by then, there's a _real_ chance that in fact both pills were poisoned and that the cabby had simply immunised himself against it beforehand." (*AN 2)

John felt a cold rush along his spine just hearing that. "Oh."

"So, see. You. Saved. Me."

That night, John had slept like a baby. And that dream hadn't returned since. Sherlock would have made a pretty good therapist, if he had had a totally different character.

That was the thought in John's mind as he returned home from the surgery at the end of the afternoon. He found Sherlock seated in the armchair, an open file in his lap, brows knitted and seemingly irritated as he looked at the documents he had laid out on the TV table.

Sherlock sighed heavily when John entered: he was obviously glad that John had arrived, so that he could rant about whatever was wrong that time with the file in his hands — he never seemed to notice right away that John had come in otherwise, if he was thoroughly engrossed in a case.

John couldn't help but ask: "That bad this time?"

"You have no idea. Not only the reports are mostly dull, but even the photos aren't quite right! How am I supposed to work this out if I can't even know for sure in which position the dead woman's hands were?"

Sherlock's eyes were travelling back and forth between the photos in front of him and his own hand, trying probably to imagine the possible positions of the missing hands, while John got closer. He took a look at the photos and noticed that there was no photo indeed with the initial position of the corpse's hands: the arms were oddly bent at each side, but the hands were out of frame.

"Well, there can't be that many solutions. Let's consider them all."

John took a picture in his hands and got himself on the ground, arranging his limbs to match the picture.

"Oh! That's ingenious!"

John enjoyed Sherlock's compliment as he adjusted himself — it was nice from time to time to feel like more than the idiot practically everyone beyond the Holmes was bound to be.

"It's perfect, you've got it."

Sherlock jumped up and sat higher on the armchair, feet on the settee, arms on his bent knees, hands joined, and _looked _at him with the utter concentration reserved to puzzles and corpses — which he actually was at the moment, of course — and the power in that gaze as usual made John's whole body tingle. It was a strange mix: hypnotizing and inescapable, kind of terrifying, like being naked, knowing every corner of your mind would be discovered; yet exhilarating, and gratifying, feeling being worthy of being noticed and analysed.

"So, what can you do?"

John cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and started to try this or that; concentrating on what he could or couldn't do with his hands while laying that way, without being in any way influenced by Sherlock's reactions to what he was doing, and waiting for Sherlock's sign before changing position.

"No. No. Doesn't make sense. That neither. Irrelevant. No. No! You should hum something."

John hadn't been expecting that last bit AT ALL, yet understood it easily: he knew that if the roles were reversed he most probably would have difficulties looking at Sherlock and trying to see him as a corpse. So he started humming the first thing that came to his mind, which turned out to be Sherlock's most usual night tune on his violin — John wasn't really into classic (ok, to be honest, he had never given it a try), and apparently his mind, searching for a back-ground tune more than for a song because his lips had to stay sealed, had jumped on that one.

"Oh. So you DO hear me. I was wondering if the isolation was really that good up here. Anyway, that works fine."

John went on and on, Sherlock sometimes asking him to come back to a former position before discarding it again, until he heard Sherlock's intake of breath and guessed he was on to something.

"Don't move."

John held still, while Sherlock now obviously paced around him, looking at him from every angle. At some point, he even got on the ground, and kind of hovered above him.

"Yes, that must be it."

Sherlock's presence suddenly left. John opened his eyes, saw that Sherlock was now not paying attention at him but was playing in his head the scenario he found fitting with all the facts, and sat up, waiting for the explanations which he knew would come.

"It was cleverly done, not pressuring her wrists, leaving no marks…"

Sherlock then looked back at him and smiled.

"She was pregnant — her husband said so in the rapport. She must have tried to get her hands to her belly on her last moments. He put his hands on hers when he noticed, and kept them off until she was gone. He wanted revenge. The baby was in fact not his. He killed her. Planned or not, I'm not sure, but he killed her, that's a fact. Covered it afterwards, breaking the window and a few things in the room to make it look like a burglary. The eventual prints of his fingers on her or the blood on his shoes and clothes could easily been presented as a consequence of running to her in the hope that he still could do something. He played devastated about losing both her and the baby and it worked. I'll text Lestrade, they have to interrogate the husband again."

/

And so, from that time on, John helped Sherlock if needed with 'visualising'. Sometimes John would play a humming dead, so that Sherlock got the picture of a cold-case corpse in 3D in his head; other times Sherlock would ask him to do this or that, and would kind of punch him when he least expected it, as a way to test a killing-strike theory; and other times Sherlock would ask him to try to hit him from this or that angle. They both thought out aloud, tried different things until they believed they had found THE satisfying move which fitted with the rest of the data's. All that 'wrestling' had a logical consequence, even though John noticed it in fact only afterwards. Their boundaries disappeared; Sherlock would grab his arm before taking a sudden turn while running after some criminal, John would pat Sherlock's shoulder while saying "You'll figure it out eventually" when Sherlock got really frustrated, and on and on. It felt natural, like breathing.

Sherlock also started to play his violin for him. He had asked if John would like it right after solving the pregnant woman murder; if he was hearing bits of it now and then, he might just as well hear it all properly, right. Sherlock though had obviously been nervous about playing in front of him, and John had realised Sherlock hadn't played for someone in ages — most probably since his childhood (a young child always wants to impress his parents after all). So John had closed his eyes, which had seemed to help, and had enjoyed the music as Sherlock had finally started to play. And now, from time to time, mostly when John complained about the TV being uninteresting, Sherlock would take his violin out and play a few things. John had even by now a few favourites. Sherlock of course knew which ones; and on one occasion, when John had awoken from a nightmare in the middle of the night, Sherlock had started to play one of them — John had felt ashamed (obviously, he must have shouted or something for Sherlock to hear it downstairs), but grateful. None of them had mentioned it in the morning.

(*AN 2)

Having read _A Study in Scarlet_ before ever seeing _Sherlock_, this possibility had never occurred to me. The adaptation is SOOOO awesome in the whole that there's no way I would have ever thought of something else than book-related over that particular bit. But I've read it a few days ago — when the words didn't want out yet and the page stayed desperately blank — in a short fic I stumbled upon (When Death Is on the Line) and thought it was fitting for my nightmare bit… So, all credits for that little line happily given to Fialleril, and to a movie I've put now on my to-see list, just for curiosity's sake: The Princess Bride J)


	6. Chapter 5

**IT'S ALL FINE**

JOHN

John turned his phone on. There were 3 messages from Sherlock, and John didn't like that at all.

He had left the flat about three hours ago, to catch a plane to Glasgow. He had just boarded off but was only in the middle of his journey; he still had to take the train and then a cab before he arrived in Lamlash, on the Isle of Arran.

Harry had called him on the morning, and the few comprehensible words he had gotten from her between all the drunken sobs of "Miss her" and "Been dumb" had made it clear that his sister had finally lost it over her divorce and had gone for the week-end to the place Clara and she had been for their honeymoon — and that she wasn't able to drive back home on her own. So, of course, John had said he'd come. He had swore to himself that it would me more about getting her to solve her problems than about indulging her and giving in to her pleas for attention, but he had not hesitated a second about going: she was his only relative, and no matter how annoying she could be most of the times, well, he DID love her.

Sherlock had asked him the moment he had hung up, without moving from the sofa he was sprawled on, where he was going to pick her up. His answering "Isle of Arran" had made Sherlock crane his head backwards on the sofa to look at him upside down — John had barely noticed the oddity of it; he had by now grown accustomed to those typically Sherlockian minimalist and to-the-point moves, like walking ON the TV table instead of around — but the only comment Sherlock had made had been "She's lucky to have you as a brother", in a factual tone instead of any disapproving sigh or remark John had expected.

John had shrugged, whispering about Harry being simply lucky that he had found a very flexible job, and Sherlock had smiled at him before telling him that he should call Sarah and go upstairs to pack his bag while he would arrange his tickets. John had been surprised again by Sherlock's attitude and had wondered if maybe, deep down, Sherlock could relate with being the insufferable one — and knew he was after all lucky to have Mycroft as a brother too.

When John had come back downstairs, Sherlock had handed him the tickets and had wished him a good trip. John had felt a twinge of worry about leaving Sherlock on his own for about 30 hours, but had decided that the timing was not that bad after all — Sherlock had solved the last cold case in his possession just the day before, and he would get a new box full of them by tomorrow, so one day of inaction hadn't seemed too alarming neither for his flatmate nor for the flat — so he had refrained from the "Please, try to stay alive" which had first come to his mind and had left with only a joke, asking Sherlock if he should warn Mycroft about his brother being unattended for so long, and Sherlock had scoffed, playing to be offended by John's bad attempt at humour.

So, really, Sherlock had looked_ fine_ when John had left. But now, John wondered what disaster he would have to deal with in penance for having left his flatmate's side, while opening his last messages as fast as possible.

The last two simply said "John?" and "?", and weren't giving him any clue, except that Sherlock wasn't happy about having to wait for John's answer.

Then he read the first one, and his mind went blank: "What's your favourite animal?"

Sherlock's texts were always more of the practical kind: "Come at once"; "The Yard" — or any other address he wanted John to meet him at; "We're out of milk"; "I need patches"… There never had been a question — though it had happened once that Sherlock had summoned him only to ask where his gun was, because he couldn't find it in the flat (for the good reason that John hadn't thought it wise from Sherlock's attitude in the morning to let it at home that day and had taken it with him to the surgery, with the bullets apart of course) — and it had never been of the personal realm.

So, John got really anxious and called Sherlock, needing to hear his voice and way of talking to check if there was any sign of Sherlock not being his usual — of Sherlock being under influence. Sherlock answered right away; he most probably still had the phone in his hands, waiting for John to answer his texts.

(Apparently happy his waiting was over) "John, finally!"

(Tensed) "Sherlock, are you all right?"

(Intrigued)"Why wouldn't I be?"

(Factual) "You texted me thrice since the minute I landed."

(Correcting; so very Sherlock, John started to relax a bit) "In fact, I texted once. Did you see—"

(Playing curious, but mostly still tensed) "Yes. But why would you need to know what my favourite animal is?"

"John, you _know_ I am bored; I wasn't dressed when you left." John could picture the usual 'how did you not notice _that_?' expression on Sherlock's face, and it felt reassuring. "So I was thinking, and I realised I didn't know that yet about you, and I couldn't just deduce it so—"

"So you had to ask because it bugs you when you come up blank, all right, that makes sense." John kind of sighed in relief, and then did a double take. "Did you just say you think of _me_ when you're bored?"

"Sometimes. Does it bother you?"

There was that tone again — one you didn't heard often in Sherlock's voice, and one who was always only directed to John — when Sherlock kind of asked if he had done a serious mistake in human normal communication. John liked that tone quite a lot, he could recognise to himself.

(Smiling) "Depends. Does it help?"

(Factual) "Usually. And right now, without a doubt."

(Final) "Then it's fine."

"Good. So will you finally answer my question?"

"Tigers."

(Thinking) "Tigers… Because they're dangerous?"

John couldn't suppress a laugh. "Can't tell, might simply be because it was my favourite stuffed toy as a kid. Anyway, I've always found them fascinating… What's yours?"

"Sorry?"

"Your favourite animal?"

"No idea."

"You don't— of course, rubbish."

(Dismissing) "Exactly. It's not important; why should _I_ ever have bothered about _that_?"

"Well, you started this, so blame it on yourself; you're allowed to delete it all afterwards if you prefer, but now I want to know. You have a bit more than 24 hours, do your research: go to the zoo, it's open on Sunday; watch Animal Planet; search the Internet… At the least, it would keep you occupied for a while."

(Suspicious) "John, why did you call?"

(Puzzled.) "You wanted me to, no?"

(Pressing) "You could just have texted back."

(Feeling caught but trying to get himself out of it) "You know typing isn't my thing."

"Tigers isn't that complicated to type, I'm sure you'd have managed."

"Well, I… I just didn't— Why does it matter anyway?"

"You know, your silence talks for you."

"Fine. If you've deduced it all—"

(Scoffing) "If!"

"Look, obviously you're the average yourself, and I don't care if I made a fool of myself as long as you're fine. I'm a doctor, after all. So—"

"John, it's all right. Now, hurry up or you'll miss your train. I'll text you from the zoo."

And with that, the line went dead.

John realised Sherlock was right about him needing to hurry, and arrived just in time to catch his train. He was still in it when Sherlock started texted him again, keeping him updated, and making him laugh most of the times.

"The birds are too noisy, it's annoying."

"Monkeys are even worse. They remind me of Anderson."

"Penguins are funny."

"Giraffes are boring: all they do is eating."

"Tigers are lazy. I don't get it."

John had to answer to that one, of course. "Wait until they move."

Fifteen minutes later, apparently they had. "Ok, I see your point."

A bit later: "Dangerous and lazy. Am I a tiger?"

John went laughing so hard, his neighbours gave him a disapproving look. He answered, still smiling, "No way." Then he wondered if Sherlock hadn't been asking in a way if John liked him, as he liked tigers, and didn't want his short answer to be misread in any way, so he took the necessary time (typing, urgh) to add more seriously. "You're tall, and thin. You can lie on the sofa and not move an inch for hours. Your mouth is full of venom. It takes you days to digest one gigantic meal after a case. And you have a thing for music. You're definitely a snake." That was more than enough proof, even without mentioning the hypnotizing eyes and voice, right?

"Venom?"

"Feel free to ask around."

"No need. Off to the snakes then."

John was waiting for the ferry when his phone beeped once more.

"All right, I'm a snake."

"My turn. What am I?"

No answer for two minutes. John tried again, guessing why Sherlock might not be willing to play: Moriarty had been hinting at it too before.

"Come on; I'm sure you've figured it out already, it's quite a basic one. You won't offend me."

One minute passed again. John was starting to type again when Sherlock's text finally came in.

"You're a dog. The kind of big, strong dog, loyal and all; like a member of a pack, or the ones who are trained to find people after an earthquake."

John smiled. "See, that wasn't difficult." Then he felt like adding: "A pack member? I've left the Army, you know."

"Yes, but you found yourself a new pack."

John went for the easy joke. "Oh. Are we going to fight over the Alpha place?"

"John, don't be ridiculous. You're the only dog in the pack."

John liked that answer very much. Of course Sherlock leaded the way, and they both knew it. But it was nice to know that Sherlock still considered him as independent, free-willed, and that he knew that he followed only because he _wanted_ to. John was still smiling when he boarded the ferry. He continued the game moments later.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Easy. Mother hen."

Easy, indeed.

"Lestrade?"

"Eagle."

Well, the D.I. was perspicacious enough, and as a police member he ought to sweep down its prey, huh.

"Donovan?"

"Panther."

She was feline and had claws, for sure.

"Molly?"

"Mouse."

John had to laugh. It was very fitting though; tiny, timid, and they always saw her at the lab in her white coat… "Don't eat her, Snake. She's nice."

"Very funny."

"Stamford?"

"I just saw a toad who reminded me of his glasses. But I'd rather say owl."

Probably because of the round face — and the rapacious way he brought people to Sherlock so that he could scare them off in no time.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock seemed to need more time than for the rest until now. The answer came, finally. "Shark."

John didn't see it first, until he thought about their receptors kind of thing. A bat wouldn't be potentially_ lethal_ enough to qualify for the oldest Holmes, so yeah, shark fitted all right.

"So… We just miss an insect."

"Not-Anthea could be an ant. She busies herself for my brother's sake enough to be one."

Indeed.

"Sarah?"

"I don't know her well enough. It's your pack anyway. You tell me."

"House cat." The healthy kind, of course; she was graceful, for sure. But not dangerous. There was a lenient thing about her; and he felt comfortable with her.

"Harry?"

John smirked. "Keep it for yourself, but I'd say a leech most of the times."

"So, you've got an invertebrate too in your pack."

John laughed at Sherlock's joke. "Yes. I'm SO lucky."

"And on her good days?"

John sighed. "A bright-colour butterfly."

"You DO love her."

"Yes. Keep that for yourself too."

"Clara?"

"Ostrich. At least that's what I used to think. Not sure about that anymore."

"Zoo closing. Not too much wind on the ferry?"

"It's all right. You going home?"

"Yes, I was told to watch some TV."

"You never do what you're told."

"Depends whether or not I enjoy doing it."

"Animals aren't boring then?"

"Well, remember the Van Buren supernova? I've decided some knowledge about animals might turn out useful one day."

John smiled at the 'excuse', but let it pass. "There's some risotto left in the fridge."

"Don't push your luck."

"I'm not, it's just… I'm sure you haven't eaten all day."

"I'll remember that later on, if I get hungry."

That was the best promise he could get from Sherlock and he knew it, so he dropped the subject of keeping him healthy.

"We're nearly there, I can see the harbour."

"All right. Try not to kill Harry."

After a last drive in a cab for the day, he found Harry still red-eyed and still not fully recovered from her previous drinking, which had to have been massive then. He got her fed, and got her into bed. They talked some. She told him she'd sent a message to Clara about missing her, and that Clara had answered that it didn't count as she was evidently drunk. John understood Clara was in fact a fox. Divorcing had probably been her last resource to get Harry out of her drinking. Her sister was lucky to have her too. He just told Harry Clara was right and turned the light off.

He watched Animal Planet for a while; it seemed a fitting way to end the day. Right before he got to bed, Sherlock texted him that the risotto was good, and John replied with his latest thoughts about Clara being a fox.

The drive home the next day went well. Harry slept through most of it, and seemed more focused afterwards. She said she was GOING to solve her drinking habit, which sounded far more decided than her usual "going to try". And she thanked John "for coming even though she was a terrible sister". There was hope, really. She told him too that it was nice to see him happy, and that no matter what he had written, Sherlock evidently couldn't be that bad — there had been a few more texts which had had John grinning over the day.

John got home at the end of the afternoon. He went through a quick resume of his week-end with Harry with Mrs Hudson, who 'by chance' happened to need to get out the moment he opened the door, then went upstairs. He found Sherlock's computer running and Sherlock impeccably dressed and apparently making tea for him in the kitchen when he got in.

"Tea?"

"That'd be nice, thanks."

They sat at the table facing each other, and John enjoyed the warmth of his cup in his hands before taking a sip — it tasted perfect, as usual.

"So, from what I heard while you talked to Mrs Hudson, that unexpected trip didn't turn out too bad."

"Indeed. I don't even mind the ache in my back, it was absolutely worth it. How about you? Did you collect enough data's?"

"Yes."

"And your favourite animal is…"

"Bees."

John was surprised, you bet. He knew bees were_ important_, and he understood how they could be very interesting, in Sherlock's point of view; but who the hell would pick them as a favourite animal — they stung people, right?

"Bees?"

"Problem?"

"No. Don't know. I guess I had expected you to pick something more… eccentric or so."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, it was a tie with the Boleophthalmus pectinirostris, satisfied?"

John smiled. "Sounds more like what I had imagined. And what is that?"

"A mudskipper from Japan. I can show you a video."

John watched the video about that fish he had never heard about and had to recognise they were interesting.

"How did the bees win over those?"

"You can find them in London."

"Of course." That made sense: Sherlock was nothing if not practical, right. "You got new cold cases from Lestrade?"

"I'll fetch them tomorrow."

It was John's turn to grin. "You actually enjoyed yourself those last days."

Sherlock playfully took his usual 'bored' tone, "No". Then he smiled. "But I'm ready if we ever have to solve a case including animals."

John pretended the odds of such an eventuality were really high. "So, you won't delete it all as rubbish?"

Sherlock signed at his head. "Oh, I'll find a little storage backroom in there." (John tried not to laugh at the allusion to what Sherlock had recently pompously named his 'mind palace' instead of his 'hard drive', joking about the change being a result of John's blogging style's 'bad influence' — John had internally agreed for once about his influence being a bad thing then.). Then Sherlock grinned. "I've bought reminders anyway."

John followed Sherlock's waving hand and saw the addition to their mantelpiece: there was a tiny plastic snake awkwardly half dressed-up (most probably with the aid of a pin) before a little stuffed husky, the rest of the reptile body on the ground between the dog's legs. The snake was protecting the dog, and the dog was protecting the snake. The montage was by far definitely the ugliest thing in the flat, and probably one of the ugliest pieces of junk John had ever seen, but John loved it anyway. He even got closer to take a better look. Sherlock followed him.

"They're awful, you know."

"Yes."

They smiled at each other in silence for a moment.

"I've picked up Chinese, if you feel like it."

"That sounds great."

They ate, discussing Harry's new state of mind and its possible consequence on Clara's life too. They cleaned up (Sherlock always helped when they actually ate at the table) then watched Animal Planet for what would probably be the last time in a while, and a bit later John decided to call it a night — he had driven for hours and had taken the early shift the day after as a way to compensate for his absence of the day.

He wished Sherlock goodnight and turned to leave but Sherlock called him. John noticed that Sherlock actually seemed nervous as he turned his attention back to him.

"John. You shouldn't worry about, you know… I'm clean. I'll let you take a sample of my blood if you want. You can have some of my hair too."

John couldn't describe exactly how he felt right hearing that. It was a mix: surprise, definitely, because this had always been off ground; relief, because, well, it was one of his biggest worries concerning Sherlock; warmth, because he was trusted; embarrassment, because he felt it wasn't easy for Sherlock to discuss this; and curiosity, because he had always wanted to understand.

"No, Sherlock, it's not necessary." Not today anyway — he couldn't help but add in his mind. He hesitated a second, and then went on. "Does the offer stand for the future too?"

Sherlock kind of winced, but he nodded. "You'll only need to ask."

John looked at his feet. "Er, thanks, I mean, well…"

Sherlock 'smiling' voice — for lack of a better explanation of that particular tone — cut him off in his poor attempt at gratefulness: "Once a doctor…"

"Always a doctor, yes." One second passed, then curiosity (or better said, concern) won. "What did you use to take?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "Depended on what I wanted. Mostly amphetamine, or cocaine; and ketamine, a very few times." The look on John's face must not have been a good one, because he very seriously added: "John, I don't have a death wish, no matter what my chosen life-style might induce. And, for what it's worth, I always checked what I got before use."

That wasn't making it better. There was though no point in arguing that addicts generally didn't have a death wish but that enough of them ended in a cemetery anyway; and there had never been heroin, nor meth, and the 'check before use' was probably the most positive thing he could hear about the whole thing. So John nodded, if only to acknowledge that he believed Sherlock about not being suicidal.

Sherlock was silent next to him, apparently allowing him to ask further, and John wanted to take the opportunity to learn as much as he could about his old habits, as a way to better prevent their return. So he cleared his throat and took the leap. "When did it start?"

Sherlock averted his eyes but answered. "After Mummy's funeral. I took uppers for days. Mycroft came along on the fifth day, that's when I met whatever-her-name-is; she called herself Alexia at that time, and injected something in the back of my shoulder while I was shouting at my brother. I slept for a full day, and finally broke down when I awoke. Mycroft stayed, no matter what I called him… The not-sleeping thing could be useful though, and that's mostly why I'd take it afterwards."

John bit his lip to refrain from saying that using drugs for 'practical' reasons sounded even more frightening than using them to feel better or whatever, and went on. "What about the hallucinogen?"

"Just a few times, when going off wouldn't pass. Either made me see nice colours or quiet me down. That's what I miss the most, to be honest."

John didn't like that bit AT ALL.

He understood exactly what Sherlock meant by 'going off', having witnessed it once; short after The Pool Incident. It had truly scared the hell out of him when he had realised that Sherlock wasn't ignoring him nor feigning indifference, but was simply truly inaccessible, as if he had indeed been switched _off_. It had been two very long days.

John breathed deeply and once more willed himself to stay calm though, knowing it was the only way to keep Sherlock confiding.

"When was the last time you used?"

"About five and a half years ago." Sherlock met his eyes again. "To make a long story short, Lestrade and I got a deal."

John already knew the D.I. was in on Sherlock's past habits, so it became clear then. "You mean… You're welcome to help as long as you're clean?"

"Yes."

John already liked the D.I., it was a good man; but he sure liked him even more from that moment on.

John now closed his eyes, and asked the question he wasn't sure he wanted to get an answer to. "When was the last time you _felt_ like using?"

Sherlock had probably hoped John to be happy enough with the last bit of information. He seemed to hesitate, and took some time before answering: "About ten days before we met." He shrugged. "Turns out you keep me balanced or something, apparently."

John looked at it from every angle he could, but decided it was the best answer he could have gotten after all. He hadn't expected to hear "Never" nor "Five and a half year ago", right — and he had really feared to hear "Last time I went off" or something along that line; so, for now, it would have to do. And if he was very honest with himself, he kind of liked it. He realised there was responsibility in that new knowledge too; but he intended to stick around after all, right, so he had no problem with it.

John ended the tensed silence with "Er, that's nice to know", and Sherlock, obviously relieved (that the talk was over, and without arguing? that John hadn't seen more than exactly what he had meant in the last admission?) clapped his hands while getting up, ending the discussion, "Well, if it makes you feel better, I'm happy we've cleared that out", and went to check the evolution of his last experiment.

John had to add something though: "It does. And, well, thanks for, you know, sharing to start with; it really means a lot to me."

Sherlock smiled back at him between two looks at his test tubes: "Goodnight John."

John went upstairs and quickly got to bed. His last thought before falling asleep was that, all in all, it had been a very fine week-end.


	7. Chapter 6

**IT'S ALL FINE**

JOHN

_Warning: Child's death (no murder though)._  
_I hesitated before writing and even more before posting this, but sometimes the worst things help you see the best in someone, sort of (and as a young mother my notion of worst is mostly child-related) _

One early Saturday morning at the end of September, Sherlock's phone ringed while Sherlock was momentarily out of the room. Judging from the ring tone, it was Lestrade, so John took the call. The D.I. told him about a new case they could use Sherlock's help for and gave him the address. John noted it and was going to hang up when Lestrade added sadly: "It's a child." John winced internally but was grateful for the warning, and answered they'd be there quickly.

At that moment Sherlock came back. He saw right away his phone in John's hands and smiled — John would be just as inclined as himself to willingly talk to his brother, so it only left Lestrade as a possible caller whom John would know enough to take a call from his phone — then noted the change in John's mood and apparently couldn't find the link between the two, because though John wasn't bouncing around as he did himself when Lestrade called for help, he was normally somehow thrilled, at the least, even if guiltily.

John held up the post-it on which he had noted the address and sighed: "A child."

Sherlock's brows knitted. "And that makes it different?"

John couldn't help but cringe, even though he wasn't really surprised, and wasn't offended either. By now, he was accustomed enough to Sherlock's ways of looking at things not to be shocked anymore by his flatmate's happy outburst any time the D.I. called for help; and he also knew the difference between Sherlock deliberately being rude and Sherlock only making too bluntly a statement of a fact and getting people irked without him having intended to — his first experience of that particular trait being the remark about why the pink lady would kill herself over the death of her stillborn daughter so many years later, which hadn't sounded nice, but which John had realised made a point (after all, she could have killed herself long ago over it if that's what she had intended). Nevertheless, sometimes, still, his words were hard to hear and put into perspective.

Sherlock of course noticed. "Not good?"

John shrugged kind of apologetically. "Not exactly. But technically, you have a point." A corpse was a corpse, huh.

"You'd rather have me go alone?"

"No, I'm coming. If I can help to find the bastard who—" He turned, heading upstairs: "Give me two minutes."

Five minutes later they were in a cab.

Sergeant Donovan kept her mouth shut when they arrived — she must be really distressed, John thought. Sherlock surprisingly only nodded at her when he passed her by, and John understood those two got along, no matter the words they could exchange on a regular basis.

Lestrade came to them and escorted them to the place where the body had been found, sharing what they had: the little girl was still not identified officially, but there had been earlier this morning one report for a missing little girl, Lily, and the grandmother, who had reported her disappearance (the parents had gone on a week-end trip), should arrive soon. Several agents were already there, searching for clues, but there was a difference in the way they behaved; it was mostly hushed, quiet, and silent.

They were coming closer when Lestrade added painfully: "Her underwear—"

"—is missing; judging by Sally's face and silence, you had her check for it." The tone had been as 'why do you even bother to tell out loud the obvious' cutting as ever, and Sherlock had already turned and was advancing towards the place where the little girl laid before John had had the time to shake himself out of the shock at that particular piece of news and the blinding anger it had aroused.

John exchanged a look with the D.I., and they both sighed. It wasn't possible to know Sherlock's actual thoughts about this, under the usual show of lack of concern — if he had known it from the moment he had met Sally, he had had time enough to compose himself. And, even if it truly left him cold, and no matter how impossibly heartless Sherlock might then be, who were they to complain or critic anyway? The dissociation, the detachment, the distance Sherlock was capable of was probably the reason why he SAW so much more than anyone else to begin with, right. So, in a way, it was for them, and for all of London, a blessing that Sherlock was able to see a body as a puzzle to solve, and not as an actual person who had used to live, love, and be loved.

John started to walk towards Sherlock and had nearly rejoined him when he heard a gasp. Sherlock seemed shell-shocked, which was definitely a first. John swore he even saw him blink.

John unconsciously reached out, his hand coming on Sherlock's arm as he simply asked "Sherlock?" — wondering and even fearing what the world's only consultant detective might have seen to be rendered to this state.

"John… I can't see!"

The awkward and never-heard-before mix of marvel, confession, shame and irritation in Sherlock's voice was a first too, and it dawned on John: "It's the first time they call you for a child."

Sherlock nodded, still not looking at him, his eyes still unable to detach themselves from the body. John's gaze followed, and he finally had a look too at the little girl on the floor. His heart missed a beat. He had seen a few dead children before, unfortunately, but he had never grown accustomed to the sickening feeling in his guts it provoked. This time, it was even worse, knowing what the angel lying at his feet might have gone through. John closed his eyes and concentrated on calming himself. He explained sadly. "Children aren't supposed to die, and even less to be murdered. I understand that you hadn't thought it could affect you, but, you know, it's just nearly impossible not to care."

Sherlock awoke from his trance at that, and abruptly turned towards him, shouting, arms flailing around. "But I don't want to care!"

In the ambient nearly total silence, and being underground, it echoed loudly, and everyone seemed to freeze. Then someone behind them sniggered — Anderson must have arrived — but any further comment was cut off by Lestrade's sharp "Back to work, everyone."

John barely registered all this because, right then, he finally understood exactly who Sherlock was.

John had known right away that Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, even high-functioning. There were too frequent little slips in that self-declared persona: the childish 'I'm ignoring you' moves, which were evident cries for attention, no matter the obligatory show of indifference; the by-now usual awkward looks after any verbal faux-pas in John's presence; and of course, the undeniable fact that Sherlock was capable of caring, as he cared about him.

If John had to 'categorise' Sherlock, he might say that his friend _might_ be a really high-functioning autist, with his bluntness, his lacking in being socially engaging, his visual abilities (not only his eye for details but his ability to visualise in his head the map of London and all), his tics, his obsessiveness, the huge mass of extremely specialised data's he collected… It didn't really matter though: to be honest, to John, Sherlock was just Sherlock, beyond any other definition.

But John now was able to realise how it all fit together.

Sherlock wasn't what he pretended to be; but he easily appeared to be devoid of feelings enough to pass for a sociopath, and had deliberately chosen to be seen as such. Sherlock wasn't unable to care; he just didn't want to care, and had built around him that hard carapace for the whole world to see, because it was how he wanted to be seen. It made sense, now that John finally knew exactly how to look at it: after all, Sherlock was nothing if not _passionate_ in everything he did — even in doing nothing, for Christ's sake. So, it wasn't about being able to care less at all; it was even probably about being able to care _more_.

And so, Sherlock's asociality was probably not (entirely?) in his genes, but was acquired. Sherlock had decided one day to estrange himself from any human emotion — maybe because he feared the result if he let them affect himself; and it had just turned out perfect for his choice of 'career' later on. It might have been easier for him than for anybody else to achieve that level of detachment — with his innate skills of observation, practically everyone must seem more like a puppet on strings than like a human being — but it had been a deliberate process, and one that had most probably started a long time ago. The Holmes brothers had mentioned their mother a few times, but there had never been an allusion to their father; and knowing for a few weeks now how 'well' Sherlock had dealt with his mother's passing at an adult age, it wasn't difficult to guess what a huge trauma the disappearance of his father might have done to a younger Sherlock. (Did he leave? Die? The subject was obviously taboo between the two brothers, so something must have happened…)

Sherlock was looking at him once more with that air of uncertainty after what he believed might be a big mistake in human communication, and John placed evident reassurance in his voice as he softly answered: "Well, it's your bloody right, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyed him as if he had just grown two heads; he had apparently been expecting him to finally tell him that he was a monster or so…

John guessed what to say: "You're not HIM, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes went to the ground in a millisecond, and that was enough for John to know that he was on the right track. They both knew there was a similitude between Sherlock and Moriarty, and apparently Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt or how he should feel about it.

But John had always been able to see the difference too. Both 'consultants' might have the same skills, but their abilities were neither good nor bad in themselves — just like money, which you could use either to buy weapons or to fund research for new medicines — and the two men definitely weren't the same: Sherlock had gone to the police years ago offering to help solve murders; he hadn't killed a fellow teenager nor decided to open his own criminal agency. No matter if Sherlock's choice might have not been done per se out of the goodness of his heart but probably foremost because it was the easiest way to fulfil his own interests; the only important thing was that Sherlock had chosen 'the right path' — thus, he wasn't evil.

Sherlock was still silent, so John sighed, and then explained further. "You _know_ I wouldn't still be around if I doubted that, right. And the fact that you regularly check in _with your brother_ for new information on him is a definite lead that you're willing to stop him, and not join him for a tea party or whatever."

A moment passed, Sherlock still quiet at his side, so John decided to drop it for now. It was time anyway to bring Sherlock back to the matter at hand. It felt strange to be the one leading, for once, but it wasn't difficult. "Now, I get it that it's different this time, but we need you to focus, Sherlock. Lestrade needs you to see, I need you to see, and SHE needs you to see. Do it for her if not for you this time, but do it. Please. I can start, if it helps, all right?"

Sherlock unfroze at last, giving a little nod, so John went on his knees. "She's about 4 I'd say. She's barefoot and wears her own night gown — there's a tiny spot of chocolate milk here." He sighed. "She seems asleep, the poor angel." He heard Sherlock walking around, and was relieved to finally see the usual concentration on his features as he got his eyes up for a second. He focused on the little girl again. "I can see multiple bruises, mostly on her knees and elbows, but they are all clearly older than tonight, some are nearly totally healed — she must have been starting to bike without side-wheels. It doesn't seem that she fought at all… Maybe she was drugged somehow, but I don't see any needle mark and I can't smell anything except some kind of strawberry soap."

At that point, Sherlock kneeled next to him and got his magnifying lens out. He checked her neck, her arms, every inch of her exposed skin, until he finished with her feet. Then he met John's gaze and smiled; not the usual self-satisfied smirk, more genuinely, like out of relief.

"We've all been idiots."

John looked at him, incredulous.

"You said it yourself: it looks as if she's asleep. I couldn't see, because there was nothing to see. Natural death. It's the only explanation."

"But—"

"John, _loo_k at her! Don't think of what you fear has happened, it's what has blinded us all from the start. Clean hair, neatly combed and still a tiny bit wet at the back, where her head laid on her cushion. It has been pouring tonight, yet her bare feet are perfectly clean, and her own clothes, as you noticed, are dry too. And don't you think someone trying to erase possible clues would use a far stronger detergent than a strawberry soap for kids. No marks anywhere. She died in her sleep; apnea, aneurysm, heart failing, not sure what, but it's the only way for her to look that… peaceful."

"But her—"

"John, she had just showered, and was put to bed. I can't talk for you, but I know if I intend to just make it to bed after a shower I don't necessarily put everything on, right."

John couldn't help but nod and he felt relief finally making its way through him. It was still terribly wrong, terribly sad, terribly unfair, but at least it hadn't been a murder, or worse. It wasn't worth a lot, but it was still worth something.

There was just one thing left he couldn't place in the puzzle. "Why was she brought here?"

"Not sure; not enough data yet. Remember her grandmother was keeping her? Maybe she panicked? Maybe she feels guilty somehow? Or maybe she got afraid her daughter or son would end blaming her for it, and she tried to place the blame somewhere else? Anyway, we'll clear it up soon enough."

Of course, Sherlock was right. The moment it was mentioned that Lily's underwear was missing, the horrified (but not in the way you'd normally be expecting) look which appeared on the grandmother's face made it obvious how she hadn't even_ thought_ about that in her panic. She confessed finding her granddaughter dead when she went to check on her before going to bed and deciding to bring her here, crying and begging for her granddaughter not to be analysed and for her daughter not having to fear for the worst, apologising for having come up with such a stupid idea to avoid losing her daughter along with her granddaughter and all. Lestrade told her they'd only run a scan and keep the whole affair out of any publicity, and wished her strength. No one complained about having had to work a few hours on in fact nothing; every agents seemed relieved, and most of them felt obviously sorry for the old lady.

The rest of the day passed quietly; both of them weren't inclined to talk, even though their thoughts were obviously linked — Sherlock made only one comment, in the middle of the afternoon and out of the blue from the sofa he was lying on: "John, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Lily' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you." (*AN); and John had planned to write their last case in his blog, but it didn't feel fine and he had stopped after mentioning only the date and "Lily".

Late that night, John still hadn't fallen asleep. Part of it was still being saddened by Lily's destiny, and part of it was a kind of guilty feeling which had grown over the day and which he couldn't shake: towards Sherlock, knowing that Sherlock cared about him while he had decided for himself long ago not to; and towards the world, weighing the chances about Sherlock caring with time interfering with his ability to see so much, after today's 'paralysis'…

That had brought John once more to thoroughly consider if he wasn't in fact too selfish for the world's sake and, what felt even worse to be honest, for Sherlock's sake — Sherlock _should_ have run, John had told himself for what could be the thousandth time since_ that_ night.

John _didn't_ want to be the weak spot of the fortress; but he knew that he had been used, and might most probably be used again, as a successful way to get to Sherlock. So: if his sticking around was bringing more risk than assistance to the man he had internally sworn to help and protect; if he rendered Sherlock _vulnerable_… well, then, John _shouldn't_ stay around, right?

Suddenly, Sherlock started to play one of John's favourite pieces — he was hearing him rolling over and over for some time apparently. John knew Sherlock was playing for him, and it felt right then just… too much.

John got out of bed. Sherlock stopped playing when he reached the middle of the stairs, so it was silent when John got in their living area. Sherlock had put his violin down and was evidently trying to deduce why John had come down, which had never happened before, but John first went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water while trying to sort out what to say. It didn't really help though, and he just let out uneasily: "I don't want to become a burden."

Sherlock's brows furrowed for an instant, and then the trademark "Oh" echoed in the room. Sherlock gave him the kind of smile which John knew was reserved to him: "John, don't be an idiot." More seriously then: "Quit wondering about the value of me 'deleting' you, because I sure don't want to. You're not a burden at all; you're a trump card."

John was taken aback by the fact that Sherlock had just admitted caring about him and not bothering much about it, even if only because he was 'valuable' — they both knew Sherlock generally wasn't good at _admitting_anything.

Sherlock might have misread the wonder on his face for puzzlement, because he started to explain, holding up a finger: "You have no problem with the paperwork". He went on quickly, before John could roll his eyes at his first 'quality', adding up another finger: "And you're far better than me in dealing with witnesses — especially with the crying type."

John knew that Sherlock might have only been trying to lighten the mood, but he actually had to laugh at that one: he remembered a few times when Sherlock had been indeed most happy to let him do the talking while he just stayed behind in a corner — and fortunately the witnesses had never seen his 'please get to the point NOW or I'm going to be very, very, very rude even though I know it would be totally counter-productive for the case' expression. Sherlock _could_ be _very_ charming, and played that card with success quite often on anyone he needed to interrogate and who eyed him a certain way; but he generally couldn't keep it up for more than fifteen minutes, so yeah, the crying type was definitely not his forte.

Sherlock smiled again in response to his laugh then went on: "You are clever enough" — that got John's eyebrows up; except about his brother, Sherlock wasn't usually keen on recognising anyone else's capacities in that particular area — "and even though your thoughts are wrong most of the times" — John wasn't really hurt, he should have seen that one coming, really — "they might light things up in a way which leads me to the right perspective."

That ending surprised John: Sherlock actually meant it, and no matter the way it had come out, it definitely felt like a compliment.

Sherlock's arm went down then, and his voice got lower as he confessed, looking at his fingernails and not meeting John's eyes: "And on the few matters I might doubt myself, like moral principles and such, well, I know that I can always trust _your_ conscience."

Again, John was dumbfounded. It wasn't that it was yet another compliment in a few seconds, but the facts that it was 'untainted' by any usual by-side remark, and that it ringed so obviously, achingly, honestly _true_. How he had been blinded at first this morning clearly hadn't been the only thought playing in Sherlock's head all day.

The silence stretched, Sherlock still watching his fingernails and John watching Sherlock, until John this time felt like lightening the mood, before he did something really, really stupid, like hugging Sherlock or so. He cleared his throat: "So, we're a team?"

Sherlock seemed to relax and met his eyes again, smiling. "Yes, we're a team."

John smiled back: "Great." Then he yawned, sleepiness coming at horse's speed apparently now that he was relieved, justified: Sherlock _needed_ him around. He headed back upstairs, but remembered what exactly had gotten him downstairs to start with and turned to Sherlock: "Don't feel obligated to play your violin, all right?"

Sherlock playfully innocently answered: "But I want to play."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine." He amended: "No Beethoven though."

Sherlock now grinned: "If that's what you want."

John felt like bumping his head against the wall. "No, the point is that you play what you want. Mendelssohn, Bach, Sarasate; your usual…"

Sherlock seemed to ponder: "What I want…"

"Yes!"

Sherlock smirked: "Then Beethoven might make an apparition."

John finally gave up, sighing. "I'm not going to win this, huh. Whatever. Have a nice time." He turned one last time before leaving the room, and shrugged uneasily. "And well, you know, thank you."

"No, thank _you_. Good night, John."

One last smile and Sherlock went back to his violin, and John knew it was his cue to get back upstairs.

Next morning, there was the announcement about Lily's funeral in the paper for the following day.

They both didn't mention it, but when John got back from work, there was a bouquet of white lilies drinking in the sink — they had no vase, and Sherlock more than probably hadn't wanted Mrs Hudson to know he had bought _flowers_. John didn't comment, and Sherlock seemed to be happy about it.

John went to the service. Sherlock didn't, but he went to the cemetery later on — the bouquet was gone when John came home.

Later that week, John decided that he needed to know more about Sherlock's father. He didn't want to embarrass Sherlock, but he didn't want either to make one day a painful comment without knowing it. It would have been easy to ask Mycroft, but it didn't feel all right either — Sherlock might just see it as treason, from them both. So, that left only the archives…

John didn't get the time to put his plan to action though, because Moriarty chose this moment to make his come-back…

/

Years later, John found Lily's funeral announcement in Sherlock's wallet. He wasn't sure what to do about the memento: was it just a reminder for Sherlock that he should never deduce something without having checked all the facts? Was it a reminder that he wasn't Moriarty? Was it a reminder that it was all right to NOT want to care? John never asked. He just decided it was a mix of the three.

They had had a lot of cases by then, ranging from national security to criminal mastermind to neighbour's jealousy, but John knew Lily's had been for them both, in a way, one of their most important cases. And it hadn't even been a murder….

/

(AN) Yes, this is a literal quote from "The Yellow Face".


	8. Chapter 7

**III. MORIARTY'S RETURN**

SHERLOCK

"Give the good Doctor my best regards."

Visions of John's blood — nauseatingly thick and sickeningly warm; black in the moonlight, and then so red, on their clothes and on _his_ hands, under the ambulance's light.

Sherlock felt like throwing the pink phone on the road and have the cabbie drive on it, several times for good measure. He couldn't help but reread the text though on his way to his brother's.

John had once more sprung between him and possible eminent death, an hour ago, and, this time, had got hurt in the process. He was now safe — he needed several layers of stitches and would have to keep his movements to a minimum for a few days, but he hadn't lost too much blood, and Moriarty wouldn't get to him at the hospital, judging from the teasing message (even if it clearly felt like a new threat).

Sherlock had tried to reign it down; but now that he was alone, he had to recognise that he was really close to panicking — the whole concept of that feeling had been 'till now alien to him (he lived for the chase, and knew the risks it implied, right), and you bet he abhorred the change. He needed to _think_, for goodness's sake, to see _clearly_; but his mind just seemed to have stopped functioning since he had seen John's blood flowing out.

/

It was now the fourth time that John had willingly put his own life on the line, _for him._

The first time, right after they had met, Sherlock had been surprised, mostly. He had reckoned John would understand what was happening the moment the second search's result about the missing phone would appear on his screen — John really wasn't an idiot — but he had been expecting Lestrade's team to come around, not his fresh flatmate armed with a gun and actually using it to keep him from swallowing a pill! All right, John had chosen the wrong building; so he had never actually got close enough to the cabby to put his life in direct danger. But the fact that he had come, and prepared for the worst, had been enough proof right from the start of what John would be ready to go through just to help him.

They would never know if only one or both of the pills had been poisonous (the police had found only one pill in the room, unfortunately — Sherlock had no clue whether it was the one he had chosen or the other — and the cabby had already been cremated when Sherlock had realized he might have in fact taken a counter-poison beforehand), but Sherlock believed it fair to consider it as John _maybe_ saving his life.

Then, in Soo Lin's flat, Sherlock had been simply _lucky_. Someone able to kill his own sister without hesitation wouldn't have thought about sparing a stranger who happened to get in the way if it wasn't for the potential back-up or witnessing from the man ringing and shouting at the front door. John was still unaware of that fact, which suited Sherlock just fine. And, to be fair to John, neither that nor the later kidnapping could be counted as John risking his life consciously. But what had happened at the museum — John coming after him while gunshots were fired in the corridors — definitely did.

Sherlock hadn't enjoyed the sinking feeling in his guts when he had realized that he had endangered John _thrice_ in only a few hours. So, of course, when the time had come to confront Moriarty, he had chosen to do it alone, because the fact that John was apparently ready to sacrifice his life to save others, and particularly to save _him_, wasn't helpful at all: it was sort of _frightening_. Unfortunately, he had experienced soon enough just _how much_indeed.

Of course, John really couldn't be held responsible for his second kidnapping either. But he had voluntarily taken risks when he had gripped Moriarty to give Sherlock a chance to escape.

Sherlock had recognised to himself, later on, when he had been able to analyse, that John's move at the pool had been a good one with the cards he had at the time, not knowing Mycroft was in on it: if the missile plans truly didn't interest Moriarty, then it was simply Sherlock Moriarty was after; so if Sherlock run, Moriarty and his men would most probably go after him — leaving John able to disrobe himself from the parka, drown it in the pool, and then chase after them. And Sherlock really wanted to slap himself _now_; because if he had run, Moriarty might have believed that he had been wrong about how important John was to him — and tonight's accident would never have happened.

But at the moment — just like a few minutes before, when John had appeared playing Moriarty's part, and that Sherlock had frozen, though he knew well enough that John couldn't be Moriarty (John had been right next to him while Moriarty had been talking to the blind old lady, right) — Sherlock had been paralyzed: he just _couldn't_risk John, no matter how good the statistics might be. It had been just a moment, because he knew that his brother's team _must_ be around and ready to intervene. But that short moment had been enough — had been too much — and now he was paying for it…

/

At the end of this afternoon, Sherlock had out of thin air received a text on the pink phone (he had of course bought the right charger for it right after Moriarty's escape, nearly six months before; John had noticed it without commenting — they both knew Moriarty wasn't the type to give up, no matter how long he might need to prepare his comeback, and though Sherlock's number was on his website, Moriarty had given him the pink phone for communication.)

John had been out, working, thankfully — at least that's what Sherlock had thought at the time — and Sherlock had gone at the noticed time to the noticed meeting point in an industrial park; without John's gun — John had apparently decided that Sherlock looked too bored this morning to judge it safe to leave it at home — but not particularly anxious: Moriarty was back in a playful mood, if he got 'an invitation' instead of a bullet through the head, right.

Sherlock had been right: Moriarty had only intended to send him a 'playful' warning. But Sherlock had misjudged what the eventual warning could be.

John too had received an anonymous text — "The skies are falling, but you'll have a chance to save him" — which he had judged disturbing enough (and probably even more than that after discovering that Sherlock had turned his phone _off_, which just never happened) to fly to the noticed address, and he had arrived just in time to push Sherlock out of the way, right the moment a wooden beam launched from a rooftop would have smashed his head, had he still stood where he stood one second before, if John hadn't thrown himself at him and then rolled over, gun pointing to the place their attacker might be, and then around, before hushing out something about Sherlock having to pull him back to cover because he was hurt in the leg and couldn't walk, gun still aiming in front of them and ready to be used if necessary.

Some of the wood had splattered and a nasty piece had got into John's thigh. It had bled. Not a really gushing haemorrhage to be honest, thanks, but still far too much in Sherlock's eyes.

John had stayed focused and stoic about it all, telling he had called Lestrade on his way and that the D.I.'s team should arrive soon and keeping the gun aimed ahead of them all along, but Sherlock hadn't felt calm _at all_ as he had taken them to a covered spot while taking precautions so that John's leg wouldn't move, called Lestrade ("John got hurt, arrange for an ambulance"), took a closer look at John's injury to deduce in the bad light how fast the blood was flowing out, judging mostly from the growing stain on his jeans — they both knew better than to take the wooden piece out: John's thigh seemed to be pierced near an important artery, so it might be luckily blocking a true haemorrhage for as long as it stayed in place — and checked John's vitals over and over until he finally decided that John's heartbeat wasn't getting too rapid too quickly and that John didn't look about to pass out soon either.

So, the first thing Sherlock had said, when he had been confident enough in the fact that John would truly be all right (aka when someone else than John himself had told so) and had thus been able to say something else than the "Don't move" and "Are you all right?" that had turned out to be a constant litany for the last fifteen minutes, hadn't been "Thank you", you bet. (Sherlock was pretty sure anyway the wooden beam wouldn't have been toppled over if John hadn't come.) In fact, he had literally exploded while they got John in the paramedic car.

"This stupid, _heroic_ behaviour of yours has to stop. You CAN'T do that ever again."

He hadn't been prepared for John's rage (impressive and not diminished in the least by the facts that he was cautious not to move and that he was half wrapped-up in a pink blanket) as he answered.

"I _CAN'T_? Sorry Sherlock, but I bloody well CAN, and I bloody well WILL, and you don't get to whine about it! What happened to 'we're a team', huh! It's YOU who CAN'T do that ever again! You CAN'T run after criminals on your own without _any_ back-up! And this'd better get RIGHT NOW inside that very thick skull of yours."

Sherlock had seen an opening and had gladly taken it, nearly growling: "Or what?"

But John had simply answered, very coldly: "Or _I_ will chase down the next criminal on my own, and see how you like it."

And that was _the_ threat Sherlock couldn't risk, huh. And some people thought John wasn't really clever? Idiots!

John had nodded at his silence, and had suddenly calmed down. "Good, I see we have an agreement." He had even smiled while dismissing him: "Now, why don't you use the time they'll need to stitch me up at the hospital to have a look at the roof before every piece of evidence is gone. I'd rather not have to hear you complain for days on end about how they didn't noted in the rapports whatever tiny crucial piece of information you'd want to know, especially as I'd better avoid walking too much for at least 48 hours. I'll call you when I'm free to leave."

Sherlock had only glared back before rejoining with Lestrade outside, but John had known it to be in defeat.

The last thing Sherlock had heard before they closed the door was John apologising for all the shouting and joking with the very-cute-looking-by-John's-standards paramedic that he was ready to bet he'd have to get back home in those soon-to-be-one-legged pants because he had forgotten to ask his silly _colleague_ to bring new ones when he'd come to pick him up.

Sherlock had out of habit rolled his eyes at the recurrent word — he understood that John wanted to present himself as a colleague instead of a friend when they were investigating, it sounded more 'professional'; but it always kind of annoyed him when John defined him as such while obviously flirting. (He wasn't sure if he had problems with the fact in itself or with the fact that it annoyed him, but he couldn't deny that he didn't like it.) It had felt though this time mostly reassuring: if John was his usual self, he must truly be all right.

The building was currently under reparation, so any engine used to set the beam on the roof earlier that day wouldn't have attracted attention. They had found a ladder at the back, which had been used to climb up and then down, but again, it most probably belonged here anyway. There hadn't been much to deduce too from the roof's hard concrete's inspection: three men — two to push the beam and one to survey the area — had been up there waiting for some time, judging from the number of burnt cigarettes on the ground (Marlboro and Camel, obviously, no matter how Lestrade's eyebrows had seemed to doubt his knowledge in tobacco ash; and though of course they'll run the usual tests, they wouldn't find any DNA: the ends had clearly been put in a tube to avoid direct contact with mouth and saliva); but at least they had now a few things to look for on the surveillance videos from the neighbourhood.

Sherlock had then decided to go to his brother. Mycroft could make sure that Lestrade got the films from any available camera really quickly, and, more important, Sherlock HAD to see the last update on the Moriarty file NOW. His last check was about two weeks old, so with a bit of luck there would be a lead, finally. He would have to _ask_, because Mycroft hadn't got an update yet or he would have let him know, but that didn't bother him right now: he just couldn't just _wait_ uselessly, and John would probably have to run a few checks and get a saline solution and/or antibiotic's transfusion before being released.

So he had texted John about his plans and had got a cab.

/

Mycroft of course read his distress (how Sherlock hated the word, and even more the feeling) the moment he opened the door. But Sherlock had more important things on his mind and just pushed his way through.

"Yes, _I_ need _your_ help. John got hurt. Feel free to enjoy my unusual state of mind, as long as you arrange for the most recent update to the database to get here _right now_."

Mycroft didn't comment, just sighed at him while he paced back and forth, and made a quick call (to Not-Anthea, who else) before turning back to him while putting his phone back in his pocket: "It should be here in about twenty minutes."

Then Mycroft met his eyes again. "So, _he_'s back."

Sherlock nearly growled, still pacing, "Yes."

"I take it that John is all right."

Sherlock could only nod. He didn't want to speak out loud the "For now" which had first come to his mind as an answer. He sat down with a sigh. His brother handed him a drink, but he refused it.

Sherlock briefly told his brother what had happened tonight, and especially _where_, and Mycroft made another call about getting access to every cameras in the area — having the British Government as a brother was _nice_ after all, from time to time.

Minutes passed, Sherlock's fingers tapping nervously on the couch while they waited for the update to arrive.

Sherlock broke the silence, thinking out loud: "It might be better for John to get away for a while."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him in that scoffing way of his. His tone surprisingly sounded kind of sad though: "Brother dear, I never thought I'd be ever saying that to you, but you're not seeing things clearly right now. John would never agree to that plan to start with; and you know _you_ wouldn't fall for such an easy trick, so why should _he_?"

Sherlock turned his eyes away and didn't answer. The tapping resumed.

A moment later, the bell ringed and something which sounded like a heavy envelop thudded on the floor — Mycroft wasn't keen on having information passed on digitally; he knew computers were hardly safe.

Mycroft went to take it and handed him the file when he got back.

The list of Moriarty's from the last 40 years, living or dead, UK citizens or not, was long enough; but there wasn't one Jim(my) Moriarty. So Sherlock had decided for a while now that 'Jim Moriarty' was in fact an alias, and not the true identity of the criminal mastermind. But he couldn't discard whatever little information they could gain from it, as it might have been chosen for a reason. That name, and the link with Carl Powers, was all he had to work from.

Sherlock believed Jim at least to be a true first name — Jim was common enough, and it took time for another first name to become natural to wear — and had checked any Jim or Jimmy who had frequented Carl Powers' school and swimming club, and Carl's family, if only to be sure he left nothing unchecked, but it had been in vain.

He put more faith anyway in the family name — there were after all a lot more common names to choose from if you only wanted anonymity — so with his brother's help he thoroughly had checked any Moriarty, hoping for a clue, any clue. He had first looked for any rumours about women having abandoned a child and about men having affairs between 30 and 40 years ago, in case Moriarty would have sort of reclaim what he believed to be his true name. It had ended nowhere, so he had started collecting every possible detail about each person on the list, and regularly over the last months, Sherlock had gone to Mycroft to see the additional information found about the people on the list.

The new information was written in blue, so he didn't need each time to reread the whole thing, which was turning quite voluminous by now. Sherlock started to read, and Mycroft, as usual, took a book and apparently paid him no attention. Sherlock hadn't felt yet like taking the necessary time to explain the whole Moriarty case since its begin to his brother — though that might change after tonight, if needed, he considered a second before starting reading — and Mycroft didn't allow the file (or any copy of it, which was of course why he always stuck around while Sherlock consulted it) to get out of his house — it always got burned in the chimney.

Sherlock's breathing (which just signalled growing irritation 'till then) suddenly stopped. Sherlock reread the last words, to confirm he hadn't imagined the words. But _yes_, there it was, under the record of James Moriarty, mathematics professor, celebrated author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid and A Treatise on the Binomial Theorem, homosexual and living with his partner for over 30 years (and therefore not likely to be a possible father), born in Birmingham and deceased in Bristol: they had added the list of all the schools he had taught at, and from 1985 to 1992, he had been teaching in _Brighton, Sussex_. It wasn't at Carl Powers' school, but that _must_ be the link he had been searching for, for months.

It all clicked into place. Carl and Jim knew each other — Jim had told so. It wasn't from school, and not from the swimming club. It wasn't family. So, the only possibility left was NEIGHBOURS. How could _he_ have missed it, really? Two kids from different schools but living in the same city block, and therefore meeting often enough to grow to become friends, or, in their case, to dislike each other. Jim had probably identified with his math teacher as a genius and had so chosen that name when he had opted for an alias later on.

"This is it. It has to be."

Sherlock didn't explain his deductions to Mycroft, it would take too long and he had to talk to John, NOW. He told his brother he would _need_a list of Carl Powers' family's neighbours first thing in the morning, _thanks_. (Sherlock never said "please" to his brother while asking him a service; he knew his brother would help him anyway, whatever he needed. But, when it really mattered to him, Sherlock could thank him in advance. He had been raised properly, after all.) Mycroft as usual nearly smiled at the very rare word, but just told him to "be careful" as he walked him to the door.

/

Sherlock had been right, once more. The Irish, O'Connor's family had used to live four doors away from the Powers'. They had one child: Jim. They had moved to Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic in 1991. The parents had died little after moving in a car accident, and Jim could have come back but had chosen to stay there — he had been officially adult by the time, so his grandmother had had no other option than to accept his choice.

They got an address, and booked their trip. Sherlock had first booked one ticket, under the pretext that John should rest and all, but the way John simply said "Sherlock" had been enough for Sherlock to book a second one.

Cesky Krumlov was a tiny, lively yet quiet, beautiful town (at least, in John's mind — and the trdelnik, local pastries, surely helped him forge such a positive image; but Sherlock was never at ease without the noises and buzzing activity of a metropolis surrounding him.)

They kept watch of the house for two days, but it seemed deserted. The pink phone stayed quiet too, and Sherlock didn't like it. It made little sense for Moriarty to make contact and then leave it at that. He turned it and turned it over in his head, while John surveyed the house. He even added a nicotine patch — John saw it, of course, but didn't comment: 3 patches were still acceptable, it seemed.

Sherlock got _enraged_when he figured it out. He had been played at, since the beginning.

A sudden flash in his head was all it took for him to understand. 1989. Sherlock had gone to the police office, had made a fuss when they hadn't want to listen about "where had Carl's shoes gone, because he surely hadn't eaten them, right", and the officer had tried to calm him down, addressing him as "Mr Holmes" several times before he had just stormed off. There had been witnesses.

Moriarty must have been around then (probably to play the "do you know what happened to my poor friend Carl" card), and of course hadn't been able NOT to note the name of the one who had guessed the truth about Carl. He might even have followed him his whole life, once his interest had been picked... It was more than probable that Sherlock had several times got in his way without knowing it, as Moriarty had told. But Moriarty had got in touch when _he_ wanted it, using Carl's shoes and a name he probably had chosen only for _their_ cat and mouse game because it was linked to Carl too; knowing he risked being discovered but not minding in the least, either because he was too bored to care (but that really couldn't be the truth), or because he believed himself above Sherlock anyway (but, once more, it didn't felt right; Moriarty admired him somehow, this was evident — just as Sherlock himself couldn't deny that Moriarty _was_ clever), or simply… because his true name meant _nothing_ anyway for his security, and that the best way to dispose of a threat, without killing it, in case it might one day turn out useful, was to give it another target to follow.

So. They were maybe here, now, because it was what Moriarty had planned for, simple as that.

Sherlock had just stormed out, John on his heels, looking puzzled.

He hadn't been surprised to find that the frontdoor wasn't locked. John had raised an eyebrow when the door opened, and that had finally brought Sherlock to his breaking point.

"Yes, John. He played us. He played _me_. And he won. So let's just learn what we can from this place and then get back home."

Every door inside was open, save one. John walked to it but Sherlock stopped his hand before it come on the clench, "He's a bomber, remember."

The house was empty. The only item they found was an envelop, left against a vase to be upright and visible from afar on the table, typed and addressed to "Sherlock", of course.

Sherlock put his gloves on before opening it carefully, after having analysed it minutely. There were just a few lines, not hand-written either: Moriarty thanked them for having so conveniently left the UK while he had a very serious drug deal going on, and ended with "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock took the vase and the letter with him; it had to be analysed, no matter how tiny the chances to find something useful on either of them. He left the pink phone on the table in exchange, as a sign that he really wasn't in the mood to _play_ anymore. John just nodded at him and they left the house.

A few moments later, Sherlock's phone ringed. They both guessed who had texted before they got to open the message.

"I'd complain about the vase; but we both know I was ready to blow the whole house, so I can't hold it against you. See you around, Sherlock."

_..._

_AN:_

_So, I had originally planned to have Moriarty and Sherlock falling through a window into the Vltava river and not being found afterwards, kind of a "Reichenbach Falls" ending. But I'd rather tweak the second serie in my silly world too, so this is how the Moriarty case ends for now, so that it can be linked later on with whatever is going to happen on the show…_


	9. Chapter 8

_It's been a while, huh… Sorry it took so long, but I've been pretty busy becoming a Mom for the second time and all… and I've seen Third Star, which turned me into a total wreck for about a month – if you haven't seen it, just go watch it: so much beauty, so much feelings and I'm so grateful for the ride, really. So here a little resume of the previous chapter, for remembrance if needed: John got injured while 'saving' Sherlock from an ambush organised by Moriarty. Sherlock found out Moriarty's true identity, thanks to Mycroft's Intelligence services. Sherlock and John went to the Czech Republic, only to find an empty house and a thanks note for being away from London while Moriarty had some traffic going on…_

_This chapter is mostly about closing the gap between season 1 and 2 and uncovering among other things back stories for the return of the skull, the sock index, the appearance of the Cluedo board, the smoking etc etc... _

**IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (1/?)**

JOHN

John waited for the sound of water running in the shower before opening the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He still felt guilty about sneaking in; but, of course, his concern won over, as the oldest Holmes had reckoned.

/

Their last evening in Cesky Krumlov had been dreadful: the both of them had still been furious about having been in fact chasing ghosts for the last two days (though to be honest John's disappointment at their failure couldn't compare with Sherlock's rage about having been played at), and John had quickly gathered from the curt, monosyllabic answers he had gotten any time he had poorly attempted conversation that giving Sherlock time to steam off was for now the best option.

They hadn't talked either on the flight back home: while boarding, Sherlock had said (finally talking again since Moriarty's last text) that he intended to lock himself up in his mind palace for the duration of their flight — for the record, he had also _physically_ locked himself up in the toilets for about 30 minutes: a baby had started crying and after that Sherlock had apparently decided to keep to the (relative) silence of the cubicle until they would land…

Once back on English soil, Sherlock had given the cabbie another address than the expected '221B Bakerstreet', then had turned to John and explained that they were going to warn Mycroft about the obvious breach in his system, as the final lead to Moriarty's true identity had been put in his brother's file just when it had turned out useful for the criminal — when Moriarty (they still used that name between them) was concerned, they both just _couldn't_ believe in coincidence.

John had been taken aback; Sherlock, _going_ to Mycroft, right the minute they landed, instead of simply texting him as usual? Was it because this was a matter of National Security? Sherlock had once told after all that he wasn't ignoring 'Queen and country'; and even though it had by then felt like a tease, Sherlock had in fact solved the Bruce-Partington case on his own. Or was it because he knew how much this information would matter to his brother, and was somehow concerned? Or was it just because he wanted to enjoy Mycroft's face when he would tell him the bad news? Not that Mycroft's poker face would change much, John had assumed. But Sherlock would always see a change, no matter how minor... The relation between those two was always so awkward, John hadn't been able to decide Sherlock's preeminent motive for the actual visit.

Anyway, that's how John had got to know Mycroft's address. He had internally sniggered as he had passed the door: _maybe_ now the oldest Holmes would just _ask_ him to come by, instead of having him kind of abducted to some deserted secret place whenever he saw it fit to summon him. John though didn't hold out too much hope — the Holmes just loved to be dramatic, indeed.

Mycroft hadn't been surprised to see Sherlock, and the gravity on his features had made it clear that he had understood right away from his younger brother's face that they weren't bringing good news. But John's presence had seemed to be unexpected — Mycroft's right eyebrow had gone a tiny bit up for a nanosecond, and probably only a huge shock would provoke such an unguarded body reaction from the British government's embodiment. The "Nice to see you, John" that had followed, smile included no matter the obvious seriousness of the moment, had ringed genuine though.

Both Holmes had quickly and matter-of-factly discussed the breach in National Intelligence, and Mycroft had called Anthea (they all knew without a doubt that if Mycroft had to trust only one of his employees, it would be her) to have her secretly re-check and put under surveillance each and every person who had worked on or had had access to the Moriarty file.

John had believed then that they were about to go; but Mycroft had eyed his brother from the side for a few seconds and had walked to a chest of drawers. He had come back with a pack of cigarettes in his hands, and had handed it towards his brother.

John had been surprised. He had understood pretty soon that Sherlock didn't use the patches to quit smoking: they weren't therapy; they were _replacement_, and Sherlock used them just as he would light up a cigarette — whenever he felt like it. As a doctor, John wasn't happy with what, one way or another, still was an addiction — especially as Sherlock regularly had several patches at the same time on his left arm; but you bet he'd rather deal with nicotine patches than with cocaine or such, so he had accepted it as a minor danger and only kept a close watch on Sherlock's use, in case it got out of hands. But John had never seen Sherlock smoke, nor even smelt tobacco around his flatmate; and when, at Janus Cars, he had offered change so that Sherlock could buy himself a pack of cigarettes, Sherlock had refused, saying that the patches were enough. So, John had come to the (obviously wrong then judging by Mycroft's move) conclusion that it might be just another of Sherlock's odd habits, and that Sherlock maybe just used the patches to get some nicotine in his system when he wanted to enhance his thought's process (after all, John hadn't forgot Sherlock's purely pragmatic justification of his past drugs' use) but that, in fact, he wasn't a smoker.

Sherlock had scoffed when presented with the pack of cigarettes; but a second later, his right hand had gone for it. Mycroft though had then moved the pack backwards, just out of his brother's reach, smiling with the condescendence of a knowing-it-all saint. Sherlock had rolled up his eyes in fierce annoyance but had only sighed exaggeratingly before rolling up his sleeve in order to remove the three patches John knew were on his left arm (they had been put on while boarding the plane), and then handing them over to his brother, clearly trading. Mycroft had taken the patches but had still held on to the pack, shooting another look at his younger brother, one eyebrow very pointedly going up. Sherlock had glared back angrily at his brother, but then had glanced at John while rolling up his right sleeve to remove _two other patches_.

John's blood had gone boiling. He knew that Sherlock exclusively used 7mg patches (*AN) because it allowed him to 'dose' himself in equation with what he believed to be enough to provoke 'the necessary extra kick' in his brain's gears, and that the patches went off as soon as it dissipated, to avoid the change from stimulant to sedative. So, several patches in one time were common; but three patches was the maximum John had ever witnessed, and for particularly difficult cases only — and having been confronted right from the start with such an amount without any apparent imminent OD signal, John had judged it safe enough for the detective's constitution, and acceptable as long as the patches didn't stay on too long. But _five_ patches! When would Sherlock understand that he SHOULD take care of his body — if only for the sake of his magnificent brain?

John had stopped mid-word his surprised/disapproving/worried outcry of "Sher—", deciding a lecture now would be pointless, Sherlock's ability to _consider_ that he _might_ have gone too far always being reduced to nihil in his brother's presence. So John had taken a deep breath to calm down, swearing to himself that he was going to survey Sherlock's use of the patches much more closely from now on — even if that apparently meant following the bloody man to the bloody toilets the next time they'd be on a plane!

John's anger though had quickly turned into guilt. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't want the nicotine to turn sedative on him; so if he knew that five patches were still working for him as a stimulant, then he had tested his resistance in the past — most probably when he had started using patches. But how come John, who hadn't left Sherlock's side for days, hadn't noticed? It _should_ have been obvious enough, if Mycroft had been able to see it in a heartbeat. Worse; what if he hadn't noticed before either?

Mycroft had finally brought the pack within his brother's reach once more. Sherlock had retrieved one cigarette and the lighter (which was in the pack too) and had made as if he was going to light his cigarette, but Mycroft had coughed. Sherlock had snorted but had stopped his gesture and had just showed his disdain by storming out to smoke on the balcony. Mycroft's eyes had followed Sherlock's back until the door of the balcony had fallen shut, with undeniable sadness in his eyes — though he had obviously won the match this time.

The wordless (the Holmes, particularly Sherlock, being too versed in _the art_ of sighing/scoffing/etc for it to be silent) conversation had been kind of eerie to witness, but John had had no problem with understanding it — he was apparently by now an expert at deciphering any look/roll of eyes/eyebrow move/sigh/snort/smile from both Holmes's 'language'.

Mycroft's voice had shaken John out of his trance: "Don't blame yourself for the patches, John; they're hardly an issue at the moment." A pause, then his voice had dropped an octave as he had confided, "It's been years since he last accepted one." Mycroft had finally turned to him, and as their eyes had met, John had felt that Mycroft was pleading him, even if the tone of his voice was just as politely commanding as ever: "You _have_ to watch him very closely tonight. And I know you value privacy, but you really _should_ check his room."

John's first reaction had been to think that he was tired of playing intermediary between the two brothers; when were they going to behave as grown-ups? Then the meaning of Mycroft's words had sunk in, and John had just paled as a wave of actual _fear_ had hit him.

Mycroft had eyed him in silence until he had seen that John had understood _exactly_ what he had meant, and had then simply added "It used to be in his socks' drawer" in his usual business-like tone before turning once more to look at his brother.

A few minutes later, Sherlock had re-entered the room, in a hurried pace which had left no doubt about the fact that he was still cross at his brother, and Mycroft's "Good afternoon, Sherlock" as he had walked past him had of course stayed unanswered. John had out of habit nearly thrown at Mycroft his usual 'Please excuse his behaviour' look, but had stopped himself remembering that it was unnecessary with Mycroft and had just ducked his head to say his leave before turning in order to catch up with Sherlock before he would get in a cab. Mycroft had uttered a dismissive "I know I can count on you, John" to his back as he had reached the door.

During the drive back home, John had fleetingly wondered if Sherlock hadn't in fact visited his brother _because he had needed a cigarette_. The idea was not only ridiculous, it made also no sense: Sherlock wasn't prone to submit to any kind of authority, even less to his brother, and if he wanted to smoke he WOULD definitely just do it — the man had done drugs, hello… So John had discarded the thought right away. He had far more pressing matters to dwell upon anyway, you bet: he needed to buy a pack of cigarettes, it might turn out handy some day; and yes, he was going to search Sherlock's bedroom.

/

And so, here he was, sneaking into Sherlock's bedroom. John pushed his guilt aside and swiftly went to work; he had no time to lose, Sherlock wasn't one to stay in the bathroom for long when his mind was fully engrossed in a case. John had been first surprised that Sherlock would even 'waste' time with such a 'pedestrian' activity while busy with the thinking part of a case, but as the number of showers in a day most often turned out to be linked to the difficulty of a case (of lack thereof), it made sense: John suspected that Sherlock took cold (so yeah, short) showers to stimulate his blood stream and clear his head.

John had a lucky day: the room was quite tidy, actually; only one open box from the Yard in a corner, and no on-going experiment — Sherlock had moved his own 'archives' in hermetical boxes to 221C (Mrs Hudson having declared about a month before that the three of them could use it for storage if needed, as she had given up on renting it anyway).

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the first two drawers. In the last one (which John checked _very _thoroughly — it contained socks, and was by the way surprisingly, because Sherlock was better at creating a mess than at keeping the flat tidy, but without a doubt the best organized socks' drawer John had ever seen) John found two reserve packs of 7mg patches, which he had expected, and a small leather case. He opened it and lost his ability to breathe; there was a syringe within. It was empty though, and there was no vial in the case either. John then went for the closet, and the night table. He also looked under the mattress, behind the small pieces of furniture, and checked the edges of the floor. He found no substance to fill the syringe anywhere (he had been surprised though to see the skull inside the night table), and he started to breathe again: he already knew there was nothing on their table in the living room which could be used as a drug — you bet he had from the start taken the habit to keep a very close look at whatever was on it whenever Sherlock used it as a lab table (aka 95% of the time).

John scanned the room and went out, having decided that everything was back in its usual place. He took a magazine, sat in his armchair and actually started to read in the hope to get distracted enough so that Sherlock wouldn't notice anything.

It failed, of course. Sherlock glanced at him, muttered something about 'Mycroft' and went straight to his room. He came back out of it right away with the skull in his hands and placed it on the mantelpiece, exactly where it had used to be, before turning to him. "I understand that you thought prevention better than treatment; but I believed WE had an agreement on the subject long before my brother's interference." Then he returned to his room, explicitly closing the door behind him. John sensed that he wouldn't leave it for some time.

John felt a sting of shame at the mention of their previous talk about the drugs but he just let Sherlock be. He had no urge to apologise nor to explain himself: they both knew that he would act exactly the same if he could turn back time, or if it seemed necessary in the future; and Sherlock had clearly absolved him already, no matter the 'obligatory' sulking to manifest his disapprobation.

So instead, eyeing the just returned item on their mantelpiece with care for a while, John pondered on the mystery of the previous hiding of the skull; but he couldn't guess its cause and he finally went to bed with a shrug. He let his door open, just in case, knowing that with his mind set on the vigilant sleep he had gained from his Army's days he would normally get awake if 'someone' felt like going out after all. He knew too that should he missed it anyway, he'd more than likely get a call — John couldn't deny that he was for once actually happy about the cameras Mycroft must have surveying their flat, huh…

Sherlock stayed in.

_Author's note:_

_This is of course a wink to the 7% solution, I just couldn't let such a coincidence pass without using it :)_


	10. Chapter 9

**IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (2/?)**

The next morning, John found Sherlock lying as so often on the sofa, but still wearing his clothes of the day before, which was sadly tell-tale enough about how the night had gone and how the day would turn.

John went to prepare breakfast, which genuinely felt odd since Sherlock usually took care of that nowadays. John would have liked it to simply mean that Sherlock was 'striking' as a sign that he was still sulking, but he knew unfortunately too well that it just meant that it was _one of those days_. Sherlock hadn't prepared breakfast, not because he wanted to make a point or because he was too bored to move a finger or because he was fully engrossed in a case, but simply because he was too far away to notice anything at all (and thus least of all probably that it would have been time for breakfast).

Sherlock's state of mind right now went way beyond locking himself up in his mind palace for a case. This was the 'sometimes I don't talk for days on end' mood Sherlock had warned him about from the start and which John had come to realise was _actually_ even _worse _to deal with than the 'I'm soooooooooooo bored' whiny mood and its inevitable very, very infuriating consequences. This was Sherlock totally cut off from the world, and so withdrawn in himself that John couldn't reach to him.

It had happened twice since they shared the flat.

The first time he had found Sherlock in such a state, shortly after The Pool Incident, John had been worried sick. He had first feared it to be drug induced, but he had quickly realised that it wasn't (thanks God). Then he had tried being patient; he had tried talking; he had tried yelling; and he had even tried touching. But he had gained nothing from any of it, and it had truly scared the hell out of him when it had dawned on him that Sherlock wasn't ignoring him nor feigning indifference, but was simply and truly inaccessible, as if he had been switched _off_. He hadn't dared to do anything after realising that, fearing Sherlock might indeed get brain-damaged if he was shocked awake out of such a deep trance (so throwing water or so really hadn't been an option, huh).

It had been two very long days, you bet, before Sherlock had startled him, suddenly telling him "John, you definitely look like you could use a good sleep" as if that was the most natural thing to say right on recovering from some zombie-like episode.

The second time, at the very end of the summer, there had been a giant neon sign switching on in John's mind (Sherlock had referred to the past consequences of being in such a state during their short awkward chat about Sherlock's past drug's use, so…). Sherlock though had assured John afterwards that he shouldn't worry, because those episodes had used to be far more frequent before he had met him.

But John really hated those days; not only were they literally painful to witness, but, worst of all, they made him feel _useless_. There was nothing he could do, except waiting for Sherlock to emerge out of it on his own terms.

So yes, this was once more a critical time. John though believed that their flat was clean. And John knew from experience that Sherlock wouldn't be 'available' for hours, in the best case scenario — he had noted during the last crisis that the 'absence' periods could extend to seven hours, with short periods of (silent) awareness in between, mostly used to walk from the sofa to the armchair or the reverse before resuming staring into nothing. And John realised now too that he had in fact an ally in taking care of Sherlock: he had never initiated contact with Mycroft before, and he still wasn't keen about it; but they had an agreement now, since their exchange of the day before. And Sarah had told him they could really use his help for this week — it was a holiday period, and several colleagues had taken a few days off.

So John put a glass of water on the TV table, just in case, and told Sherlock he was going to work — it felt wrong to leave without saying, even though the chance that Sherlock would register any of it was akin to zero. Then he went out, taking his phone out as he closed the door and texting Mycroft, not even minding about eventually disturbing the British Government: "Do contact me if needed."

/

Coming home from the surgery, after having made a quick detour to do the necessary shopping after a few days away and buy a pack of cigarettes (it might definitely turn out handy really soon), John was relieved to find Sherlock still on the sofa but now in his trademark statuesque 'deep thinking' position. He noticed though with a sigh that the glass he had set near him upon leaving had stayed untouched.

He went to the kitchen and unpacked while eyeing Sherlock in order to see how many patches he had on (there had been none (yet) when he had left, but the deep thinking position regularly included several of them).

Sherlock was apparently present enough now to perceive his surroundings — and the unconscious slower-than-usual pace of his unpacking betrayed John's thoughts, of course.

Sherlock dismissively answered the unasked question, without even opening his eyes. "Three, John. You made your opinion quite clear on the subject yesterday already, and I have no time to lose, so I figured we could spare ourselves the discussion." Then he confided, probably thinking that the knowledge would get John to stop worrying for the time being but missing how the too obvious regret in his voice would create just the opposite effect: "More than three wouldn't work anyway now."

John dropped his attempt at being discreet and took a full look at his friend. He was glad that Sherlock was 'back to the world' enough to be talking, but it was clear that he wasn't fine yet, not by a long stretch. And he was using far too many patches for John's liking lately.

John stopped pretending that his attention was solely taken by filling their cupboards and sighed tiredly, feeling a bit guilty as always but unable to deny that he was right now hoping for a call from Lestrade for his friend's sake.

Naturally, Mycroft would have plenty of cases to keep his brother occupied too; but John knew that Sherlock couldn't be bothered by 'petty' politics and that he would only take a case from his brother (even if first putting a show pretending not to, of course) if it meant helping preventing a real potential disaster, huh…

So, that let John wishing either for a murder or for impending doom, and he had decided long ago that he preferred the first scenario: there was at least always a chance for the victims to be some kind of 'bad guys' instead of thousands of innocent British citizens. John wasn't proud of thinking that way, but he had sadly seen more than enough (far too much, to be honest) to be realistic enough about the human nature and to know that he would never be able to save everybody. But he _had_ to save _Sherlock_, even if from himself sometimes; personal feelings aside, the world would lose a too valuable ally otherwise.

"You need a case."

Sherlock sharply answered, probably annoyed at the disturbance. "I AM on a case."

John crossed his arms and leant against the counter in a 'this is important and we're going to have a talk whether you like it or not' attitude Sherlock would probably recognise with his ears if not with his eyes. "No, you're not. Moriarty is off again, and you won't get anything more than what you've already deduced from replaying it over and over. He played us — that doesn't mean he'll win in the end; but we need new leads to get to him. Until then, it has reached a dead end. And I know it's frustrating, but overdosing on your patches won't change that fact, so you might as well take them off."

Sherlock kept silent, stubbornly ignoring him. John hesitated a second, but decided desperate times called for desperate measures. He took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and threw it to Sherlock, hoping for a repeat of Mycroft's trick.

"I bought those for you."

Sherlock gave a look at the offering on his lap, and then met John's eyes, something like gratitude quickly turning in offense in his gaze. "Very attent of you, John, but I can't accept them."

John was naturally disappointed by the refusal, but even more puzzled by the curt tone. Then it clicked: Sherlock could accept, but from Mycroft only, apparently.

A sneer, breaking his train of thoughts: "Oh, look! He's made a deduction!" Then Sherlock resumed his imitation of a marble gisant.

John hadn't been able not to wince at the cutting blow. Sherlock regularly commented on his brain's (dis)abilities, but it was generally matter-of-factly (at the worst), or (most often) with a teasing half-smile or a kind of indulgent, nearly affectionate twinkle in his eyes; but this time, it had been the razor-sharp edged tone usually reserved to Anderson and alike.

John though reminded himself that he shouldn't let it affect him: he should have known better after all. First, Sherlock looked tired — when was the last time he had actually been sleeping, huh… Then, he was _really_ irritated — at having been deceived by Moriarty, at the lack of new leads to locate the consultant criminal, at the repeated attempts at conversation from John which disabled him to relock himself in his mind palace, at the reminder of his brother's last in date show of control, AND at John trying to repeat said control (even though he knew that Sherlock hated feeling nannied, and that his constant efforts in keeping him in a healthier shape than the 'I just eat drink sleep etc etc the necessary minimum required to keep the shell hosting my wonderful mind alive and good-working' he had used to live by were only accepted because they were subtle and never commanding). To finish, there must be a _very serious_ reason for the odd power (which should have appeared comical, especially for someone aware of their usual relationship) the oldest Holmes had over his brother, so John was sensing more than probable damage and hurt under the anecdote; and Sherlock _hated_ feeling vulnerable. So yeah, with such an explosive mix of reasons, of course he'd bite.

John finished unpacking in silence, wondering about 'the cigarette thing' but following his rule that, about really personal matters, if he had to ask, then he didn't need to know. The choice to open up about it, or not, was Sherlock's; and Sherlock's only.

/

THE REASON (because I just can't see Sherlock telling all this aloud, even to John; at least not that fully, and surely not now, when he's literally on the verge of boiling over… but I can share the secret with you, huh )

On her death bed, Mummy had taken both her boys' hands in hers and had ordered them to always follow the paths that would make them happy (she knew they both had different but very peculiar interests). Then she had had Sherlock promise her to not follow her example and quit smoking. She had turned to Mycroft and had had him promise to try to laugh once in a while. Then she had smiled at them both, had told her eldest that she trusted him ENTIRELY as far as Sherlock was concerned, had closed her eyes and had released her last breath. Sherlock had been furious about being given 'a nanny', but he had understood that she knew him to be a loose projectile and had only acted out of concern, and he had learned to live with it — there was just no way he would back off on his mother's last wishes. He had been surprised the first time Mycroft had offered him a cigarette (when he had finally broken down days after Mummy's funeral), but he had then realised that it was indeed not breaking his vow, if it came from his brother. He hadn't accepted every time Mycroft had offered him one, but sometimes, he was happy with the release it would give him and silently thanked her mother for that gift.

Love was never easy-going on the Holmes' family. But love there was, definitely.

/

John quickly decided though that there were more pressing matters at hand than why's and pondered instead on another way to get Sherlock's patches' use down a notch right now: if he wasn't allowed to use Mycroft's trick, he would just find one of his own, you bet.

He knew that _distraction_ was generally his best weapon, suddenly got a silly idea and went for it — he had realised long ago that he should never overruled an idea without testing it first; with Sherlock, sometimes, the sillier his strategy was, the better it worked.

John made for the door, "I'll be back in ten, with a case." Sherlock's eyes shot open, and John couldn't help but grin — Sherlock was actually predictable, on some accounts; and between the perspective of losing his audience and the promise of entertainment, you bet John had now his full attention. More important though, it was a good sign about Sherlock getting back to his usual.

Judging from his eyebrows, Sherlock was eyeing him with interest but was unable to deduce his plan though, and John enjoyed the very rare occurrence: surprising Sherlock was hard enough already, so having him actually puzzled always felt like a boost to his ego. He added teasingly before passing the threshold: "A colonel, a professor, a doctor, a housekeeper, a young actress and a rich widow are involved, so don't tell me it doesn't sound promising." Then he went out, without giving Sherlock the chance to utter a word.

John went to the toy's store two streets away and came back with Cluedo. And he was actually _glad_ (he would take 'normalcy' above a distressed Sherlock anytime, no doubt) to be glared at accusingly on his return — "It's been twelve minutes" — by a now attentive, responsive, curious, sitting Sherlock. John opened the game's box while presenting 'the case', which luckily turned out to be fascinating enough for Sherlock: "Parents buy that for their kids? And _I_ am the sociopath?"

John though had a hard time trying to get Sherlock to follow the rules, and finally just gave up when Sherlock came to the "logical" and "undeniable" conclusion, "because it was the only solution which fitted all the facts", that Dr Black had accidentally killed himself with the candlestick in the billiard room while plotting on how to have Mrs White (she had stolen his silver collection and replaced it by facsimiles, and dared believing that he was too dumb to notice) accused of the murder he intended to perpetrate on Colonel Mustard, who had sworn to create a scandal to put a stop to the very promising career of Miss Rose (she had humiliatingly laughed at him as she had refused his advances) — who was in fact, even though she had no clue about it, the secret daughter (and parental love had always been one of the most vicious motivators, right) Dr Black had had with 'her aunt', Mrs Peacock, while her second husband had been 'mysteriously' thinning away to his death (with the more than probably unknowing help from that poor Prof. Plum, who had always been far too smitten with her to guess the real motive behind the passion she shared with him for poisonous plants and their antidotes) — by helping the (how none of the other characters were aware of that fact being clearly impossible by the way: "Really, John, LOOK at his collar!") former Reverend Green to get in her good graces, and hopefully in her bed.

John told himself that arguing about a board game was definitely too childish, took a deep breath and dropped it; but he passed on the offer of a second game, thanks.

/

And he'd always pass afterwards.

John's money though hadn't been completely wasted on buying the Cluedo. After a while, Sherlock just found another use for the board: he would occasionally pin it on the wall and throw knifes at it, "to work on his aim" — the billiard room of course would be the one he always tried to hit.

_AN:_

_I know the whole cigarette thing is (more than) a bit far-edged, but it's evident in the show that Sherlock doesn't want to smoke (he DID pay people for not selling him any), and it can't be out of consideration for his health (he really doesn't care about being healthy in general: he eats and sleeps the strict minimum, has done drugs, etc etc); and the only time we see him smoke is when Mycroft gives him a cigarette, so… _


	11. Chapter 10

**IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (3/?)**

But it had worked, without a doubt, so John soldiered on and decided he had to keep distracting Sherlock as best as he could until he'd judge the critical phase to be over. He came up with another idea.

John knew that (naturally) Sherlock had a thing for crime stories. Besides the occasional documentaries and the obligated news — the channel Sherlock always checked first (so yeah, it was really puzzling how Sherlock truly _never_ retained any information overpoliticians apart from the fact that they were "people who had tea with Mycroft") — crime movies/soaps were generally the only programmes Sherlock bore watching (even if that often included pretending not to watch to begin with, but cutting in at some point about the plot being either too obvious or illogically twisted), and they often spend the off-case evenings in front of the TV.

John had even once rented some of his favourite crime movies, after Sherlock had made a 'what in hell are you talking about' face when Lestrade had asked them if Moriarty was "some kind of Keyser Söze" as a way to verify if he had gotten the malevolence potential of the criminal mastermind straight after they had explained the pool debacle to him.

John had been amazed (yet slightly disappointed; he had secretly hoped Sherlock might get played too, for once) when Sherlock had solved The usual suspects very early through the movie: "Really good choice, John. So much humour, really; it's all in plain view — at least for those who know how to pay attention, of course… I guess people DO enjoy being proved that they are idiots — even without the '_Verbal _Kint' and 'Keyser _Söze_' thing which makes it transparent; language, John, language!"

Identity had had Sherlock baffled until its end; and you bet John enjoyed that rare occurrence, no matter the consequential complaining about the fact that "it was cheating, because there were in fact no actual murders to solve".

Se7en had been judged "dull" — "There's nothing to deduce, they just tell you who the killer is". John's attempts at explaining why knowing the killer wasn't per se spoiling anything were vain — had Sherlock never seen any Columbo? (to which Sherlock made a 'I'm afraid I haven't the faintest' face; and John judged it wiser to end the discussion there) — but they had had a good laugh when Sherlock had been irritated, offended even, by John Doe's diary entry (_On the subway today, a man came up to start a conversation. He was making small talk, this lonely man, talking about the weather and other things. I tried to be accommodating, but my head began to hurt from his banality. I almost didn't notice it had happened, but I threw up all over him. And I couldn't stop myself from laughing._) being overly stereotyped: "Come on, that sounds like something _I _could say — vomiting aside, obviously; that doesn't make me a serial-killer"; to which John had countered, "Well, you said people now and then assumed you were one, remember?"

/

As a matter of fact, they might one day be thankful for watching so many crime shows/movies.

About a month earlier, a cop on TV wanting to render a suspect harmless had shouted "Down" to his colleague while throwing something at the man they were supposed to arrest. The man had ducked too upon hearing the injunction, and had been able to escape right after. Sherlock had suddenly turned the TV off and had met John's eyes with gravity.

"I should have thought about that sooner, indeed, but I was so used to work on my own and… John, we need a code."

"For ducking?"

"Evidently." (pause) "Vatican cameos."

"Sorry?"

"That's the code, John. 'Vatican cameos'. I once helped Mycroft to avoid a diplomatic incident by recovering some — I was really bored, and hadn't yet met Lestrade. Anyway, while I was chasing the two thieves, one tried to throw a tool box at me but ended knocking his mate down."

John had grinned. "They hadn't worked a code."

Sherlock had grinned back. "Obviously." Then he had ended: "Anyway, it fits the situation, and the chances we'd have to use those words for what they are are quite slim, so…"

"Fine. 'Vatican cameos' it is."

John hadn't been totally 'fine' though with Sherlock afterwards launching out of the blue for days to his head whatever was within his reach for the sake of practice; but he had understood that it might one day save their lives and hadn't complained too much about the eventual resulting bruises (really, had _a dictionary_ been necessary?) or mess on his clothes (toast with jam should be breakfast; not projectiles). It had taken two weeks, but his brain had finally assimilated the desired automatic, instinctive response those two words should provoke, and Sherlock hadn't been able to hit him once since then (Sherlock kept training him once in a while).

/

But, from the look he had once given to Sherlock's book collection (mostly chemistry, anatomy and physics — not only in English, but also in French and German, by the way — a few books over history, and three dictionaries), John had gathered that, as far as his flatmate was concerned, books were NOT for entertainment: they were only recorded data's, valuable doors to knowledge.

So John asked Sherlock if he had ever read crime novels. The unsurprisingly disdainful look he received was the only confirmation he needed, and John went to the bookstore, bought some Agatha Christie's books which he remembered to be twisty yet totally logical, and challenged Sherlock about solving them before their end. Sherlock played the part of being utterly annoyed by the whole concept but of course accepted the challenge, always having to prove you wrong being another of his predictable traits.

John said he would do the reading in order to ensure Sherlock wouldn't cheat, but in fact just because it would draw thing out for a while, as reading aloud always took more time. Sherlock answered by scoffing, but then even raised the odds by stating that John should then read from behind him in order not to give away anything, as he obviously must have read the books before to judge them able to outwit him.

And so it began, with And then there were none, Sherlock lying on the sofa again with his eyes closed but now in a complete different mindset, and John seated in his armchair, after having turned it over. Sherlock deduced the culprit about half-way through the book, winning an "Extraordinary" from John and being obviously very pleased about it, judging by the first grin in days accompanied by a "Well, it was easy" John got back for it. Murder on the Orient Express and The murder of Roger Ackroyd were rightly elucidated too on the following hours, respectively rewarded by an "Amazing" (followed by the trademark "Obvious" and not-at-all modest shrug) and a "Fantastic" (followed by a "Meretricious" and a wink which got them both exchanging, stupidly laughing, "And a happy new Year" — it WAS definitely late, indeed).

John enjoyed the moment of true connection between them, _finally_, and decided he could authorize himself a few hours of sleep. He acknowledged losing the reading marathon with good grace, went upstairs to fetch one of his thickest woollen jumpers, and handed it to Sherlock for him to experiment on with several acids, as had been bargained.

"You're sure you don't mind about this?"

John was surprised: Sherlock had never been one to ask for permission about using one of his possessions before, so John really hadn't been expecting Sherlock ever asking for some kind of confirmation after the permission had been already granted anyway.

John's first thought was that it might be due to the inevitable, acknowledged, planned destruction of his pull-over (after all, any destruction of John's belongings prior this instant had always been accidental), but it didn't felt right: Sherlock was never polite just for the sake of it; besides, it had been John's idea to bargain one of his jumper, and Sherlock must have noticed that John had given him a jumper he hadn't been wearing since moving in anyway, and so it would be safe to assume that he wasn't really attached to the thing anymore, right.

Then he understood that the unfamiliar show of concern was Sherlock's way to apologise for his late behaviour. John couldn't deny that he felt touched. Most of the times, Sherlock's comments on his behalf just glided over; but sometimes, yes, they did hurt, momentarily (even though they were always forgiven, and meaningless on the long run, because John had long ago noticed that Sherlock could be cruel, and was remorselessly cruel to a lot of people, but that Sherlock was _never _gratuitously cruel _to him_). Tonight had hurt (which Sherlock more than likely had noticed), and a little balm over it, even if unnecessary, was appreciated.

John smiled. "It's fine, have your way with it." Then he added, showing interest for a silly experiment as a 'thank you' for Sherlock's 'apology': "I'd like to see the results though."

Sherlock smiled back, perfectly understanding their code. "Naturally. It's your jumper, after all."

John was then about to get back upstairs to sleep but Sherlock apparently had something else yet to say. There was a puzzling trace of hesitation though in the low-spoken calling of his name and John was curious and somehow worried as he turned back towards his friend.

Sherlock took the pack of cigarettes from earlier this evening out of his pocket, looked at it for a moment and then handed it over to John: "Keep those for me, will you: a secret supply can always turn out handy."

John was confused: he had figured that the cigarettes would have by now already ended in the trash bin (they were after all a symbol of Mycroft's 'power' over him); but now, Sherlock was, no matter the light tone of his voice, asking him to keep them — but hidden from him. It wasn't making a lot of sense to him, but John just took them though, of course.

"All right."

"Thanks."

John's eyebrows knitted once more — Sherlock only thanked anyone if it really mattered. So John was touched to be entrusted with what was obviously a very delicate matter; even if he had no idea about what he was exactly supposed to do with that damn pack…

/

The 'let's destroy John's jumper' experiment turned out to be another success in distracting Sherlock, if the state of the pull-over when John came down on the next morning was any indication. The experiment wasn't over yet though, some products still needing macerating (for the record, John's jumper finally stayed 3 days on their table), as Sherlock explained while John had his breakfast — which Sherlock had prepared, by the way; another tangible proof that the critical period was over.

Sherlock was at the mantelpiece, looking at his skull while talking to him; and John couldn't refrain from joking: "You know, if I was to oppose about something, it wouldn't be your skull: it's hardly the most unusual item in the flat." Then he went on in a low voice, turning his attention back to his breakfast, kind of more wondering to himself than actually talking to Sherlock. "I really don't see why you didn't put it back there the moment Mrs Hudson gave it back to you."

"Seriously, John! What would Mrs Hudson do with my skull?" John didn't need to see Sherlock's face to know that he had rolled his eyes; the tone said it all, huh.

John was taken aback: Mrs Hudson had never taken the skull then? He decided though that playing along might give him some answers, turned back to Sherlock and replied, grinning. "Hostage?"

Sherlock scoffed, but then smiled back at him. "Logical, quite ingenious assumption from someone who barely knew the both of us at the time, indeed. I had told you about the violin, and you must have had noticed the by then recent stain on the floor due to its accidental exposition to some kind of acid." Sherlock paused, as if for effect, before pursuing, playfully reproachful: "Wrong assumption though, as always. Really, John, you should know by now that A) she knows that I'd find it, were she to try to hide it, and B) she knows that I know that she's too kind to actually harm it anyway, and so the whole thing would be utterly pointless."

Sherlock seemed to be not only in a good mood but also willing to continue the conversation, so John countered mischievously: "If my erroneous judgment bothers you that much, you could just tell why you hide it away for so long and spare you the trouble."

Sherlock vehemently disagreed: "Of course not, John! I'd rather hear your theories." He sobered as he finished: "They're bound to be much more interesting than the simple truth anyway, which is really quite dull, I assure you."

John was now _sure_ that there was something _important_ about the skull, because it would have been discarded long ago if it was simply dull; but he had no further idea yet on what it could be. Then he noticed the time and got up while hastily finishing his tea. "Well, sorry, but you'll have to wait some before having your fun at pointing at my ineptitudes. It's time for me to get to the surgery."

/

After work that evening, John couldn't help but write an entry on his blog (minus the whole scary zombie state part and the troubling cigarettes issue, of course) about Sherlock's last 'exploits'— the novels' solving had been amazing, really — and ended wondering about "what he would have to come with in the future" to keep his flatmate occupied, because "Sherlock needed cases, constantly".

Lestrade called the morning after, momentarily releasing John from his 'I have to occupy Sherlock' duty.


	12. Chapter 11

**IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (4/5)**

JOHN

The skull's secret story got unveiled a few weeks later. Thanks to a tree.

/

There had been clear signs, in retrospect, and John wondered how he could have misread them.

He _had_ heard the grunts and sighs at the new decorations appearing in the streets and in the shop windows. He _had_ noticed how Sherlock seemed to retire to his bedroom the exact moment he would turn the TV on.

But John had remembered Mycroft's mention about Christmas dinners and had just taken it as disdain and annoyance at the Christmas-spirit-related general goofiness which seems to arise from everywhere and everyone as soon as the calendar hits December; and it had seemed to be a pretty much 'normal' behaviour from someone as irked by about every social happening as Sherlock was.

John _had_ also noticed the growing silence as the days had gone by, the violin sessions turning recurrent in the middle of the night, with a predilection for melancholic melodies, and, finally, the resurgence of the PJ's wearing over day.

But he hadn't realised the true cause behind it until this exact moment…

And to think that John had actually hoped to distract Sherlock as he neared the verge of having another _off _episode by getting a Christmas tree! John wanted to slap himself in the face, really.

But, in a way, he was glad for his enormous faux-pas. At least, now, he knew.

/

On his way home from the surgery, John had seen the shop's special offer advertisement about the last trees and had bought one on a whim, following his guts as he had got one of those silly ideas which were always worth a try for the sake of Sherlock's sanity. Sherlock wasn't one to get the Christmas' magic, obviously; but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy making a Christmas tree, _if the right kind of ornaments was to be provided_ — let's say test-tubes in which mini-experiments could be done and followed until Christmas-time would be over, keeping the crazy-scientist-like inner side of the detective occupied over the remaining days.

Sherlock had been gone when John had entered the flat.

John had felt like chastising himself for the sudden anxiety that had gripped him — Sherlock had just as everyone else right to privacy, right! But Sherlock normally didn't leave the flat (he barely left the couch!) when in a bad mood, and by now he generally texted him if a case came along. So, John's left options about what could have had compelled Sherlock to suddenly dress and get out all included either dangerous criminals or drugs, or both, and none of them was reassuring, you bet, so John hadn't been able to refrain from sending a "Where are you?" message to his absent flatmate.

Thankfully, he hadn't had to wait for long for an answer: "Alive, clean, and intending to stay both. SH." John had breathed. And smiled. Trust Sherlock to answer a question without answering, indeed.

John had shaken his head, had left the tree by the threshold and had gone out again, heading for Bart's in order to get enough supplies for their 'decorations' — he wasn't sure if Sherlock had already sufficiently renewed his stock of acids and such since the destruction of his old jumper.

He had been alerted the moment he had opened the front door on returning by the scent of burning pine resin and had fled upstairs. The sight that had greeted him as he had opened the door had actually stilled his blood. (*AN)

There had been pine needles _literally_ everywhere. The tree hadn't simply been cut in sections; it looked more as if it had been violently and mercilessly torn apart. The fire cracking in the chimney had been the only noise breaking the eerie silence though: as if unaware of the wreckage surrounding him, Sherlock had been seated on his armchair in a perfect personification of calmness: eyes closed, breathing quiet, trademark perfect clothes perfectly in place — after having so evidently been a tornado no more than a few minutes before.

"What. The hell. Is this. About?" John had wondered out loud as he had scanned the room, taking in the damage. He had added a "Sherlock?" in his most demanding tone as he had first got no answer.

Sherlock had finally opened indifferent-looking eyes and had shrugged, acting nonchalant. "I was bored, you weren't there, and there was this tree. I felt like experimenting."

John's blood had nearly boiled over at the blatant lie. (*AN) John though had only clenched his fists and taken a deep breath — raising your voice at Sherlock was generally not helping at all — before planting himself in front of Sherlock, pointing resolutely at the mess surrounding them. "_This_ isn't exactly clinical, detached and analytical. _This_ isn't you busy with an experiment at all, and you insult me if you actually believe that I'm going to buy that explanation. This is… fury."

Sherlock had lowered his eyes, a very rare occurrence. John had suddenly noticed that _the skull_ was on his lap. And then it had dawned on John. His plan had backfired. He had no idea of the exact reason why he had been wrong, but he knew he had been completely wrong.

He had deflated. "Look. Let's just forget this all. I had assumed you disliked Chr—" (John had stopped himself mid-word, because Sherlock had been actually _trembling_ at the idea of hearing the word aloud, as if fighting himself to contain a devastating rage) "but I never thought… I just wanted to help. It was a terrible, terrible idea, apparently."

Sherlock's gaze had been still lost on the skull, so John had sighed, and then had fetched the broom, deciding that ridding the room from any evidence of his huge mistake was the best way to apologise. He had just begun with cleaning up when Sherlock had interrupted him, slowly whispering out what had felt to John like a shout able to tear up the sky.

"My Dad went Christmas shopping and never came back. I was 8. Today is the anniversary of his accident. And I obviously wasn't prepared for being confronted with that tree of yours upon coming back from visiting his grave."

/

John's grip on the broom turned far tighter than necessary, from the surprise and the pain caused by that massive revelation about Sherlock's past. The silence which followed quickly became too oppressive for the room.

John turned back towards Sherlock, unsure about how he should behave, doubting that acting on his first natural reaction would be helpful — he was dealing with _Sherlock_ after all.

Sherlock gave a 'let's not dwell upon this' sigh. Then he stood up, placed the skull back on the mantelpiece and met John's eyes straight on, and his voice switched to its usual neutral tone. "I should have cleaned this up right away. Just pass me the broom, will you."

But John just couldn't. He felt like glued to the ground, staring helplessly at the waiting hand.

John suddenly came back to his senses at Sherlock's near growl. "For God's sake! Don't pity me, John. I only told you because I trusted you, as a fellow orphan, to not react foolishly."

"I was 16", John couldn't keep in — as an excuse, a valid reason for the pain he felt for his friend, whatever, he wasn't sure himself: Sherlock had a point, of course — John himself had rarely found solace in his classmates' pained gaze, you bet. And in a way going through it all, including thus the loss of his father at such a young age, had been a part of making Sherlock exactly the person he was today; and John truly loved that infuriating yet fascinating, unique person.

"And you lost both your parents at once, and had to insure your older sister didn't drown herself in her glass when _she_ should have been taking care of you", Sherlock countered mercilessly while taking the broom from John's still frozen hand, and started sweeping. And despite (or maybe thanks to) his near-shock at the surreal vision of his flatmate tidying up, John realised that the fact that Sherlock had apparently looked up a few things about his past (or, more probably, that Mycroft had texted a few lines to his brother and had somehow tricked him into actually reading them) wasn't bothering him as much as it should have.

John sighed, dropped the futile competition about who should get the 'cry for me' award, and went to the kitchen to get the garbage bags.

/

They were nearly done when John remembered a few weeks old words from their landlady and promised to himself to talk to Mrs Hudson when she'd come back from her shopping.

"You would do nothing of the sort." Sherlock's eyes were dead-serious. "I haven't celebrated that day for years, and I'd gladly have kept on passing. But I used to _behave_ for my mother's sake, so I'll be _just fine_ indulging Mrs Hudson about that stupid party and her outspoken wish to hear me play some of those tunes, unworthy as they may be of my violin. I'll even get presents. Are we clear?"

John did a double-take. Had he been talking aloud? Or had Sherlock by now a Wi-Fi connection with his brain's circuits? In any way, Sherlock seemed back to his usual self. "All right."

Sherlock then smirked, "But let's keep it all tree-free, just in case."

John could only smile back, genuinely. "That might be for the best, indeed."

/

The next day, Sherlock found John eyeing his skull with care. He just walked by, explaining on his way to the kitchen area.

"Yes, John. It's from my father. And no, you're right, of course it wasn't for Christmas." John noted the word now passed his mouth easily; he had apparently successfully switched his mind in order to control himself by now. "His last birthday's present from beyond the grave. He had ordered for it to be made weeks before his accident." Sherlock must have turned and noticed his uneasiness then: "Problem?"

The fascination and respect John had noted Sherlock had for the receptacle of the human brain (John hadn't been the one who had hanged that poster in their living room, huh; and well, it really meant something when someone complained about possible collateral damage to over 200.000 years old skulls and NOT about being gunned at himself, right) went way back, apparently.

"No." John couldn't tell that it was quite unusual, as gifts went; nor that his father had truly known him and loved him to have gone to such an extent as having a fake skull made from animals' bones — Sherlock's obvious fondness for the thing clearly shown that he was aware of that fact, and he probably wouldn't appreciate John commenting on his ability to have _feelings_. He went for a neutral "It's just amazingly crafted" instead.

"Oh dear, just when I had decided that I shouldn't worry anymore about you stealing it…"

John laughed.

"Well, I'm a Doctor…"

Sherlock smiled.

All was well again at 221B, Bakerstreet.

/

And yet, there was still something John didn't know about the skull. It was named: Mycroft!

It had started because Sherlock had used to narrate his pirate's adventures to his skull after his big brother had left for boarding school. It had stayed, because you bet it felt nice now and then to have a for once silent and non-annoyingly-condescendingly-judging Mycroft to talk to.

Sherlock though would rather die than sharing this with anyone, and particularly with his brother, of course.

AN: Sorry, I apparently enjoy the fact that John's blood can't flow normally in Sherlock's presence.


	13. Chapter 12

**IV. THE (RELATIVE) CALM BEFORE THE STORM (5/5)**

SHERLOCK

Christmas finally passed, and Sherlock had to recognise (to himself at least) that Mrs Hudson's party hadn't been as dreadful as he had feared.

It had been just the three of them. Mrs Hudson had cooked a delicious dinner, John had prepared tea, and Sherlock had played a few Carols on his violin — and had in truth actually enjoyed playing those for Mrs Hudson. It had given him another kind of inner glow than playing to John, but he couldn't deny that her motherly approval, praises and delight at hearing him play properly had warmed his heart... He might play more often from now on.

John had eyed him with care throughout the evening, but they hadn't and wouldn't mention his father's death anymore. The past rested again in the past, as it should.

JOHN 

The New Year brought an unexpected but welcome adjustment in their lives.

John's blog turned out to have gained in the year it had been up a far wider readership than the people they knew or the criminal underworld, and after that mention about how "Sherlock needed cases, constantly" which John had deemed to be nothing more than a joke at his own expanse, people had started to leave messages on their blogs — mostly on his, to be honest, which both intrigued ('how do people work' study-like) and annoyed (the man HAD a massive ego, right) Sherlock — and even to bell at their door, asking for help.

The first case it had brought them had been _grandiose_, to quote Sherlock.

Two frightened men had come over after the police hadn't taken them seriously about fearing for their lives because three of their friends had died in the last months (the first had fallen from a horse, the second had hit his head against a wooden beam, and the third had committed suicide, stabbing himself in his locked toilets) and they were failing to reach the last member of their group for days. Sherlock had taken the case 'because their names sounded promising', which had left John puzzled, as often.

They hadn't been able to save the poor fourth sod, who was in fact already dead by then and whom they had found a few days later reduced to nothing but his bones in a sack after having been apparently poisoned then boiled, but it had definitely cleared up everything: Philippe le Bel, Charles VIII, Henri III, Louis IX; the homicides were _obviously_ inspired by the end of some French kings, and perpetrated by someone who had apparently both bits of knowledge about French history and a serious grievance against that little club of descendants of French immigrants. The remaining two friends might have ended up with their eye pierced until the brain like Henri II or beheaded like Louis XVI if they hadn't ringed on their door that morning, huh — the French were after all nothing but thorough, Sherlock had shared while they had left a befuddled Lestrade behind his desk; during the Revolution they had trialled a parrot and built a miniature guillotine to execute it, just because it wouldn't learn to say "Vive la République" instead of "Vive le Roi", mind you... (*AN)

Not all the cases brought to them were as original as the first one, but the list of what could be nearly defined as 'adventures' was growing nicely enough as the months went by.

Sherlock always turned down 'petty pedestrian' issues, or people who seemed prone to no good or who started by offering an astronomic amount of money, and picked more than once, for apparently obscure reasons which were regularly decisive clues, seemingly silly cases John would have bet never had a chance to interest him but which often turned out to be some of their most interesting cases.

They never charged for their services, but they accepted payment afterwards if the client proposed it, be it money or the will to be helpful in any way if needed in the future, John having explained to Sherlock that it helped people bringing closure to their problems. It was by now sufficient, and even though John was still officially listed as available at the surgery and was ready to lend a hand if needed, he spent most of his time on solving cases along Sherlock.

Their notoriety had also indubitably grown exponentially from mouth to mouth. Lestrade had just said they were "an Internet phenomenon"!?

John wasn't sure this bit would be a good thing on the long run, and hoped the medias would soon turn their attention on something else than their exploits; but he had to recognise, as he put on the cap Sherlock had just thrown at him while ordering him to "cover his face and walk fast", that he was truly, perfectly happy with his life right now.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock would never recognise it out loud, but he actually liked John's blog. A lot.

First, it brought him cases, regularly, and was thus, theoretically and practically, _a very good thing_ indeed. They had reached the point where they got about as much cases from their own clients as from Lestrade. Sherlock might never need Mycroft's input again to stay occupied; definitely good.

But that wasn't the only reason — it wasn't the most important reason even, if Sherlock was to listen to his heart before his mind (which he always worked NOT to do).

Of course, there was rubbish here and there, and John generally used far too many words where a list of a few simple facts should have sufficed. But it was indeed flattering, to have _John_ writing not only about facts, but about him. Sherlock would never bother much about what anyone else could have to say about him, but John's opinion on that particular subject was _very _important: John's seal of approval had become somehow _necessary_, to tell the truth, whether he liked it or not.

And it always felt _nice_, undeniably, to have such repeated and evident proof that John appreciated him just as he was. And the time John spent polishing sentences and working on punctuation mostly felt like gentle care on his behalf.

John's blog's popularity and their related newfound celebrity had one downfall though (ok, two, counting that photograph of him wearing that hat): it seemed to bring a never-ending string of women into John's always willing, open arms.

Sarah, he had tolerated; no danger there, and she DID care about John. But the others? The one with the spots, the one with the nose (they hadn't stuck around long enough for him to make place for their name in his mind palace): Sherlock had only given them the attention they had deserved — aka none. He had decided that it was not because it annoyed him to have to share John's attentions or because he worried about losing the perfect flatmate (experiments-accepting and partner in crime-solving), but in fact for John's best interest: if they really cared about John, they wouldn't be so easily scared away, right? And wasn't it what a friend was supposed to do — separate the grain of the rye grass?

Anyway, John seemed happy enough about regularly being given a way out of a relation without ever being the one making the decision…

But now, there was the boring teacher: a second date; he would have to remember her name, at least for a while… Something with a J, wasn't it? (_If Sherlock would listen to his inner voice, he would hear that he DID know that it was Jeanette, and that he should stop pretending that John dating didn't bother him. But he was always very good at ignoring it._) No need to be overly kind to her yet though, she hadn't earned it. And hopefully wouldn't…

_AN:_

_The fact that Sherlock is versed enough in French history here is just a little reminder that Sherlock is supposed to be partly French, somewhere on his mother's side ;) By the way, I've just read Stephen Clarke's 1000 years of annoying the French, and it made me laugh. As a generally proud French (even though we don't often show ourselves under our best light those last years, I agree), some bits DID annoy me, lol - but it's a nice and interesting read: it's always useful to look at your own history from another point of view, huh…_


	14. Chapter 13

**V. THE WOMAN**

SHERLOCK

_AUTUMN_

John was NOT jealous. He was concerned. He didn't trust The Woman, and only looked out for Sherlock's best interest.

Just as Sherlock was whenever John dated some stupid woman.

Except Irene Adler was far from stupid, of course.

What should have been a simple retrieval had turned out to be far more interesting. She beat him. Literally, and in any sense. He had to recognise; that was impressive. She was definitely good at the game.

He wasn't sure though what the game was for now. Those texts, all the time? And that supposed to make him uncomfortable (judging from anyone else's reaction to it) alert tone she had put on his phone? She was playing, obvious.

She wasn't fooling him; he knew none of it was heartfelt. She was obviously and definitely into women. Men were only pay checks, insurances or play toys in her secrets-seeking power games. And as he definitely didn't belong to the first two categories, then she was toying with him. Not exactly though, because she must have realised that Sherlock wasn't a toy either. So. She was after _something_, which required/involved him. It was all a game — to which there was obviously a catch he didn't know about. So, willing or not, it was a game Sherlock would have to play — at least as long as he didn't know what she was playing at.

But to be honest, Sherlock didn't mind playing, for now.

First, she was intriguing. A new puzzle, and one truly worthy of his time and attention. She was determined, daring, clever, and her league was uncharted territory, full of innuendos he could deduce the general meaning of, but not always the details — not that he would want to anyway, but Sherlock just never liked being remembered that there were things he was ignorant of. And what was the matter with words starting with the letter D anyway? A _date_ was 'where two people who like each other go out and have fun' but supposedly couldn't apply to him and John going out; and now _dinner_ had another meaning too… So, luckily (because flirting — that was the term, right? — was definitely not his area; it was a coded language to which he didn't have the code, and even though it was plain English, it felt like a foreign language), she was the one playing; that he felt comfortable enough to answer or not didn't matter.

Then, the effects the whole affair had on John were interesting, too. He was evidently annoyed by the frequent texts. And most probably counting them. It was juvenile, but there was comfort in discovering now that the situation was reversed that John too had issues about eventually having to share him.

All right. Maybe John was a tiny bit jealous too… just as Sherlock could now recognise that he was, whenever John dated some stupid woman.

_CHRISTMAS_

"Fifty seven of those texts — the ones I've heard."

So. John WAS counting. Sherlock couldn't deny that the definitive knowledge of such a fact was _nice_.

And then, suddenly, the nice feeling was gone.

She had sent him her phone.

It made only sense if…

Sherlock went to his room to contact his brother.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight. I mean you're going to find her dead."

Sherlock didn't like such an ending to their game. He felt sort of cheated; he had not foreseen _this_.

/ / /

Damn. She was GLORIOUS at the game. She had fooled him, AGAIN. It should unnerve him. Oddly though, it didn't.

Whoever had taken care of the bashing-up had forgotten the ears. The shape of one's ears is very characteristic, and he had had a good view of Miss Adler's when they had met. His new theory was definitely confirmed by the moles being in the wrong places — just like shoes, moles weren't swapping places of their own volition, right.

He went along with her plan though. If she needed to be 'dead' for a while, why would he ruin her cover? Using the body of an already dead woman with appropriate height, constitution and skin and hair colour wasn't murder after all.

And he had now her phone to occupy himself with until she reappeared…

He accepted Mycroft's cigarette; it would be telltale to his brother if he refused. And he successfully got the conversation on another track when his brother went on interrogating-mode. Which was another proof — grand words about the dangers of caring aside, and no matter how much of a brat Sherlock could behave towards him on a regularly basis — that his brother _did_ care for him, if he dropped (even temporarily) eventual National Security related matters for his sake…

He repaid his brother by wishing him a Merry Christmas, knowing his brother wouldn't miss the effort necessary behind that hated word, and went straight home, but not too quickly, guessing Mrs Hudson and John must be scanning through his room and not wanting to make them feel more uncomfortable than necessary by actually witnessing it… His brother cared. Mrs Hudson cared. John cared. His past wasn't spotless. Sherlock understood, and could live with that particular showing of their concern (it was more heart-warming than irritating, to tell the truth) — he couldn't help though but always let John know that they weren't truly fooling him, just for good measure.

Jeanette was gone on his return; he had finally driven her away too, it seemed.

John had chosen _him_, once more. And Sherlock felt guilty for the warmth that knowledge gave him; even more now that he had to let John in the dark about Irene Adler being alive. But not enough not to go on with it.

Mourning wasn't that hard to fake, apparently. Being quiet and withdrawn wasn't difficult after all while thinking only over possible pass codes for the phone. And playing the violin over day for a change had been a good idea too. He was even fooling John.

John, who was puzzling him anew… He had been jealous, right? Shouldn't he feel relieved somehow? (Sherlock knew that was mostly how he felt whenever John split up.) Yet John seemed genuinely affected by The Woman's 'death' — maybe because he felt guilty (Sherlock knew that any satisfying feeling provoked by someone's death was a bit not good, and even more, in John's book); but, to be honest, probably mostly because it (supposedly) affected Sherlock. So, again, John was putting Sherlock's well-being before his own. It was befuddling — in a stupid, foolish, irrelevant yet somehow admirable way. Sherlock wondered if he would one day be able to do the same in return…

_DECEMBER 31TH_

He knew something was off the moment he saw the car — Mycroft's services alike enough, but definitely NOT. He activated the tracker's application on his phone and followed its course while putting his coat on, then literally ran down to catch a cab.

John wasn't aware of this — and should definitely better never been told. But, right after 'The Blind Banker' case, Sherlock had placed one tracking device into each and every shoe John possessed.

(Inside John's skin would have without a doubt been the safest, but it would have been tricky to place it and just impossible to keep it forever out of John noticing — one might have to have a scan now and then, especially when one ran after criminals on a regular basis — and so the shoes had been the next best option: you can forget your phone, decide not to take your coat, but you won't go out without your shoes on, right?)

It wasn't to spy on John. It was for John's safety. Sherlock wasn't paranoid: he had enough enemies he knew about and probably just as mush he didn't know about, and he wouldn't risk being in the dark if John ever got kidnapped again in his place — or worse, as he had learned soon after, for being John.

(So all right, occasionally, since The Pool, it was also helpful for Sherlock's sanity — to know where John was when he needed some air and stayed away too long for Sherlock's liking, or to check that John had well arrived wherever he had told he was going to — to make sure that John apparently hadn't been abducted without him noticing.)

But it was happening again, right now, and it sadly more than justified indeed the definite need for having put tracers in John's shoes…

_AN: Some might think I'm squinting quite hard here… But I simply refuse to believe that Sherlock actually believed that the dead body was Irene's, because he had plenty time to see it in its complete glory, and with his remarkable memory and perfect sense for details… well, I can't buy it. And so… _

_AN2: I'm starting too on a separate story, which is in fact what will happen here later on, but even though it's weeks that I've planned to write again about my calendar version of what go through both their heads during S2 and my ideas of what John went through and all while Sherlock was away, the only thing that comes out for the moment is silly fluffy stuff which start after Sherlock's return (grrrrrrrr, it's really frustrating when your mind doesn't obey you, huh…) Maybe I'm just not in the mood for angst and all for now… and I know that if it doesn't come out yet on its own, then it's better not to force it out, so I've decided to just go with the flow for the time being… So if you don't mind about jumping forward in time with me, you'll find the future there: _IT'S ALL FINE AGAIN — WITH ONE MINOR ADAPTATION…

_Apologies again for the delay about my vision of S2, but at some point it will all fit back, scout's honour (even though I've never been one but you understand what I mean…)_


End file.
